Zest

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

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