Like a candle that, solid
evaporates, who knows
into our lungs. but it drew
out the stench that we brought
into the house.

A notion that if we are only
a pelt over a ribcage we
are acceptable.
That lumbering,
forehead protruding, you are
a sinner, no wire-rims, no sharper image
loose, not accurate.
you are unsanctified.

Hope is test-tasted: putting food
between the lips, in the enjoyment
of displacing warm air or water, as they are given.
seeing the orange light as it creates
shape.

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Ultimately, you have a prism,
three main colors in blocks
collecting like amoeba, in memory
consequentially
forming the red hair and green eyes
a thing I won’t forget and probably
shouldn’t. Couldn’t if I tried,
can’t remember my street address.

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What wonder to be
recipient to the gong
of nature, and that
having the decorated shell
we are beyond a metal crate
that just bounces and ricochets
echoing the sounds at random.

Enough to know that the healing
tone won’t dissolve the faint but
hard lump
marbling just right of his cheekbone.
Callous doesn’t destroy nerves
on fingertips.

I need the hands gripping the mallet, please.

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