There are things the body contains, or that
contain the body can it be one and the same
or, maybe, the same in difference– deference
to something further out of reach, a cold daybreak
too cold for the summer but it is summer.
There are times when the idea of body is country. Glass
through which we pass our judgement
or a map from which we trace a line
from bone to bone until the entirety
of “us” becomes something territorial. Perhaps
one may deserve a moment to become
a stopped timepiece from the 1890′s;
heirloom, antique, junk, oneself.
And the bones reach themselves into the map, grasp
this body contains
and move with
what this body is made from: the stuff of stars
the cartilage of nebula (closer) your face
off to the left. Not smiling, not frowning. But furrowed.
But there, I could touch it. There would be bones and body and Autumn.