My bones are a brittle machine. They swallow
my dreams and build cathedrals to you.
We’ll sound out their curves with our fingertips, listen
with our tongues to the measured, timid rumbling
they hide in our skin.
Breaths empty me; so I fill my chest
with colors. My skin is to hide this. So I explain:
this fleshy orange glow at my gut:
all my evolving couldn’t account for you.