reach down my rib and cross
the bone, the cage
of ink my body is; and then
travel through the needle’s gaze:
yes. Of strands and knots, let’s say
of stitches makes the garment whole.
a hole. What is cataracts,
but a waterfall before the passage:
like seeing, the philosophy of the divine.
waiting for its alphabet,
banal, this body, inappropriate
of formalities, decorated
thrust into oblivion
of all things, clarity. To be
effigial, looming in darkness
thick as flour
turning on a wheel.
water rises water falls. We make our bread
of yeast and dialogue.