Telling: Streams & Logs


In My Skin

The wind is in my skin
and all the doors of my days
are burning.

I step unready 
into the unknowing
and everything is lost
as it must be. And all 
the mouths of my skin
are wailing.


She shows me ropes
of scar tissue grown
from the efforts to change
what must be so.
My inheritance, mistaken
for bone. And taken for
strength and knowing.

She invites me into the eye
of simplicity, this here
where Yes makes peace
of all the snarling.

She is the invitation
and the door
standing open.


Still the wind
is in my skin
and I am lost.