Abstract Bodies

As with flux, so with the fires of our veins,
bundled impurity roiling at receding shore.
Coils could cool into puddles of pools and
gather apart like the quicksilver smeared
across non-toxic paper in the hands of
learners lacking hazardous waste policies.
The buckle of a chest is sometimes amiss
not to the clothed eye, but known by a hand:
each one of us, to a man, is brokener still
holding the pressure of hearts underfilled,
that limitless torment winking, blinking,
thinking, stinking up the room without any
noise or absolutely a trace of disrespect.
Coldly, some sheaf of mildewed epidermis
might set the place-mat for these talents.