If you strip the day bare,
you are left
with the breath and bones
of the stories
you’ve constructed.
Warm air gliding the length
of the neck,
dark irises beaming
from their cozy sockets,
jigsaw shoulder blades snapping
soundly into their place.
No dress-up game,
no concealment of flesh,
just facts free
of foreshadowing—
a frame that holds up
or doesn’t,
but alive for now,
mortal,
encasing its delicate, beating organs
thinking neither of death
nor of tomorrow.
Poet In Session 