This Rodinesque
chipped-away-at
demiembodiedness.
What is yet to come into
its sweetness
still green on the stem.
Between two ahems,
this attempt
at a hymn.
Our typically skeptical
head-tilt
when faced with too much neatness.
Our feel for a whole
augmented
by its missing fragments.
These scars and hickies
rebuffing
spit and polish.
After the fisticuffs
we’ve only the mistiest memory of,
this gaptoothed grin.
A magnum opus
guessed together
from the notebooks.
Our cosmos, all these
aeons into things,
still forming.
This body we bury
a spore of glory
briefly dormant.
