accumulate
how would it be to think
of your tiny life’s skin
as wood with a grain
close up
it is simply millions
of dark pores
constellations of them
black-brailling the surface
of the smooth brown heart
a murmuration of pocks, of pits, of stipples -
stubble on a shaved place -
the grubby fingerprints of chance damage;
cellular pushback of scars
tilt your head
each blemish vibrates with its neighbours
they resolve
into wings ovals petals clouds belches smears whorls
targets tidelines
of jetsam feathers
gouges treasures
survival is the slowest of arts
don’t sand yourself back too early
you’ll never know
how you turned out
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