As if everything in the world were penetrable we seek out archways, sweet lockjaw of crook and clavicle. Even the ear is a marvel
of vulnerable invention. As if sanctuary, your hand on the trapdoor of my skull where hush, quiet, state-issued boots clip the lintel.
What leaves these lines, haunted rivers parched in the palm. Line of Saturn, Girdle of Venus, that break toward the thumb
a sickness. Someone might have hurt you once or again. I want other hands. Give me freckles. Constellate me, flatten out the creases,
a nebulae whose only clear picture, infrared and cave-like,