we always look fresh

i cover my skin
in words
and drawings,
thousands
and thousands
of tiny holes.

i cover all of that
with tall wool socks,
with long pants
that go all the way
to the ankle,
with a short sleeved shirt
made of wool,
with a long sleeved shirt
made of wool.

the clothes are
of colors
that interest
and sometimes
delight me.
the clothes
fit over my body
well enough.

i am pleased
with the art
and words
that cover my skin.
i am pleased
with the clothes
that cover
the words
and art
that cover my skin.

over top of all this
pleasure
i put long
and shapeless
pants,
long
and shapeless
coat,
made to protect me
from the rain.
i put a
woolen hat
on my head,
over my ears,
down over my brow.
i put the hood of the coat
up, over
the woolen hat.
i place mittens
on my hands,
covering them,
taking their five digits
and blurring them
to one.
i place another set of mittens
on top,
another set of mittens
also made to protect
what is inside them
from the rain.

the clouds are
everywhere
today.
the clouds are
everywhere.
today
we are living
inside
the clouds.

under our skin
there are bones.
rarely
are they seen.
rarely
do we know that they
shine
and glisten
and hum
with the most
brilliant,
astounding,
perfect,
light.

a man wearing sunglasses and a black short sleeved shirt, his hair short, his arms lightly covered in tattoos, his face stubbled with a honey orange beard, looks unsmiling into the camera.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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