The ice is melting, but the chill remains
due to a lack of vestments on the frame
of a sullen man, torso swathed in chains,
olive skin and brown eyes with singular aim:
Walking past him last evening was a true trip,
and he looked up to acknowledge your aura
with a blank smile, sounding like a strip
of paper ripped from a moleskin sore:
To write is a wound abstracted as thought
and reapplied to a flesh outside of the flesh;
skin and bone make a man; skin and bone does get caught
on snags at times for want of caress:
His stigmata dorado revealed his true self
to lie inside his skin, his bone, his health.
urbansonnets 