Unpierced
and her ears,
not having known or been
broken through to post the simple
perch of pearls, listen at every lift of her
head. Lately, though only seeing: trees, some,
and today one broken cumulus
as like this pine's a palm and fingers
to card flax or wool. Or
maybe the day is in her skin
and its temp
-er
-at
-ure
is what she might imagine
she sees, is what she might like to
wear across her danced out
thighs tight as sailcloth in the break
----er
and it is this wind that will
take her to try to
tame her
and rope her
knowing only
one or two (but perfect
and thorough) adamant knots. And so
she can go off sailing
like a man
or like men
who bluff their way forward
oblivious of the oily swirls
to starboard
to port
lost all along
edges as murked like foggy bogs
like the discrete peeking free
of crepuscular need. And yet,
and still: trees
lately some the likes she's begun
touching and taking on
the stain and sticky pitch of
to her lips
to the tip
of her tongue
and every strip viscous and acidic...
the pinch is thick. She's able
to fingerprint every
place she goes, every place, unto it all:
upper lip, earlobe, throat,
even beneath the shell
of the necklace
left loose and upturned
at the edge of her sleep
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