This is the only

skin I hav’

read, read
it.

This is the only

breath I can giv’

take, take (care of)
it.

These are the only

cheeks I can feel

the rain with, when
it

tumbles heavy,

scrapes down the hill

sides where

my pores catch
it

in their butterfly nets.

This is the only

thumb I can hold the sky
with, ther’ on the shores

of the road, with
it

I’ll go west, west of here.

The rye
sweeps past

and the miles are cast

through my toes;
it

tickles.
People

like stones roll by

and frowns leak on my
shirt,

slip off in brittle,

bright ashes
on the asphalt.
This is the only heart

I hav’ (to)

let, let
it

blow away some,

like a plastic bag.
This is the only

life I heave
into the deep,

deep end.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________

Photo: Jean-Michel HATTON