It’s come unlatched, the sloppy silk fist
unhinging like a jaw as if
to swallow something bigger than itself—
it’s come to this: the cleft
shavings of truculent flesh,
this precipice, this breath
exhaled three-quarters-of-the-way
then held—an exoskeletal shadow-play,
a suspended study in delay,
like an empty house
relaxing into anonymity,
like a woman who’s unbuttoned her blouse
but wears it still, her nudity
a possible impossibility—