Sleeves
Tendons snap like the old rubber bands by the sink - that gray in the light - that pull just enough to make it look like the job will get done then -
no
I look at the man in line at the coffee shop who is so muscular that his arms will not - cannot - won't - will never - fully sit at his sides
they do that thing under the cotton of his shirt where his flesh looks like slabs of ice in an old fashioned - where they remind one of horses flanks - where it would probably be terrifying to be held by him
there are stretch marks pulling from his armpit across his shoulder - they are bands in the rings of Saturn are the left overs from a lightening strike - they are the signs of skin growth - one could dowse here and discover a thing -
My own naked body
is
reedy
knocks about in the wind - is a folded paper crown - sugar and meltability in a casement of thinness
the skin is paper the eyes are paper the moves are paper that has been licked at the edge and folded 1000 times
it does not order coffee so much as ask if it will gain today the ability to see into the future - be high as fuck over a vent in the earth and tell the secrets of the universe - the spine is the mast Odysseus was tied to - it is a gnarled tree - a dogwood that will not flower and therefore not leaf
it is a sight in its paleness -
I imagine that our shoulders would roll the same if laid back to back
there is the need to see the ugliness in that man and the line of coffee - a desire to find the tears - because my body allows itself to fold its arms tight to the side - allows its underthings to hide
a stretch across our backs would pop and curl and a lightness could envelop there
a sweat-skin would for real form -
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