As if the red windows of a screened in porch
were not enough, so to the body, lattice that it is,
permits a breath of eons. And what if, through the coarse
fabric of love some other thing, whole that it is,
passes through and lodges on the skin like a mite
or some other cell caged upon your flesh,
makes habitat of your flesh, would it not be
that what then is fleet, say unburdened
in the coned periphery of what is true,
mires in the mind as some manifest insect,
nested there, insidious and not without comfort.
Image: Darrin Henein on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 