My skin itches as if something needed to escape:
A writhing turmoil with the liquidity of smoke;
The curl and twirl of a rose unfolding in time;
The abdominal ripples of a child tumbling
And fumbling in an amniotic swirl;
Wax as it hesitates between itself and fluidity
For an instance neither one nor the other:

We are all more than we are within our skin,
A permeable differentiation between
Our belief and where we wish to wander.
We hold our beliefs loosely, like a cloak
On a warm evening, or the reins of a horse
Who knows the way home without our
Unnecessary awareness of where we are.

(February/March 2011)