the beauty of farming

little black lines
on the face.
high up
on the
cheek bones.
round cheeks,
a
quick smile.

little dashes
and dots
around the eyes,
sleepy eyes,
caramel brown and
melting
to pools.
golden
at the edges.
warm
like copper.

black dots
on the fingers.
triangles.
circles,
their centers
filled with flesh.
honey
warm flesh.
ruddy
callused flesh.

we put dreams
into our skin.
we mark ourselves
in attempt to
express
what language
cannot.

when she
sneezes
she shows
herself
as living.
when he
smiles
he shows his
teeth.
when we
chew
our food,
the next step
is to
swallow.

the species
embellishes itself
with artifice;
there is truth
in our tricks.

the eyes
flick
quickly
over the face,
down to the hands,
back up
again.
saliva pools
in the mouth,
autonomically.
we swallow,
the throat
moving tenderly,
holding no secrets
at all.

a densely-petaled flower is sodden and near its seasonal demise. it is pale orange, pale like the color of honey. it is only partially in focus, against a dark midnight blue backdrop.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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