tangerine tangle of flesh
found its fontanelle,
felt where it begins
and pierced through
the soft sacrament of skin
–
pulp oozes a patina
along the driftwood grain-
braid of my father’s hands
–
peeling quietly
out of the past
–
a piece for me
–
and now I sit, in-
habit of an aimless gaze
the glistening eye of the sea
to dissolve and disperse
the melancholy of reality
–
so that what I feel wafts
in sound
and returns back in my hands
–
a lattice of fibrous memory,
–
and this skin of flesh
peeled back
strands infinite
