Observe walls: percussed voices
and bodies like trees. The rooms
It's all they ever whisper to us.
The mouth of a house
reveals many things—
Hands to map the body—
Here a valley of freckles, starved.
The inability of bodies to respond
to an ecology: touch betrays touch
Sometimes one of us moves
the other. I've seen a magnet that
Even left alone, the body tastes
the ontology of an economy
Our investment is not defined
as the rain into the ground, the ground
Not tongues. Not stillness of eyes.
The neighborhood consumed something
consumed everything itself.
we buried our bodies
under fabric, escaping
beyond yards and fences.
"Skin Interims" saw an early draft during a road trip I took last year. I was eating pizza and watching an episode of The Rockford Files in a Wyoming hotel, the kind where people also live full-time. The poem was then further written while taking the bus from the Marina in San Francisco to AT&T park.