]
The sunlight does not
veil me.
Instead it's secret
cascades gently into my veranda:
Be aware of this skin
that traps the pining spirit.
A burst of this warmth
slopes down my eyelid like
long skeletal fingertips
merging with that feeling of
television-static
all around my nostrils,
sliding slow like
thick poured honey.
What I learn are spun
from the garden of the sun.