Another layer’s stripped
away, as through attrition,
until the grain of my skin
bleeds through, a botched tattoo.
Randomly, I pick a book
off the shelf and read notes
from decades ago I left
in the margins, and wonder:
who was I then to write
myself into a text so poorly;
while knowing, I am
no different now.
I am nude on a stair,
descending into myself.
