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Wrist
February 27, 2010
I see the turquoise tracings
like frost on warm windows.
My silken skin
nearly transparent
corded with fluttering tendons and
faint imprints
of my clumsy hemp bracelet.
Smelling of mango hand soap
as cool and purple as
the circles beneath my eyes.
I press the veins
feel the pulse
that is the whole substance of being and knowing
of sitting here thinking of being and knowing.
I breathe
and feel the murmur of crimsoning blood
warm like a flickering candle flame
which in a darkened room
becomes the sun.
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