on every millimetre of your surface
your toes dependent, depending, a wild family
of moons, your soles scrawled
with messages about the limits
of divorce
and divinity
and up your legs which are more memories
than travelling companions, as long as they
should be
responsible, their beauty catalogued,
their genius to
walk, but first,
a pink brown lack
of discernment, then blandness, and forward to
glistening disorder
all these hectares and I had not yet found
a blemish
wild I cried,
kissing your absences
and profoundly
asleep
to everything
on the other side
of your skin