Soul Against Skin

The weight of decay is just shapeshifting--
what once was alive is now a different shape,

still enchanting. Color, shapes of lifeforce,
lazily puddle around what continues to be.

We distract ourselves with charts and graphs,
shapes tangible and raw, constant. Meanwhile,

the backlighting is all but forgettable;
we watch the colors drain through eyelid skin,

pretending to sleep, not peeking. I wish
I was more patient. I wish I understood.

When he said he was an orphan, I cradled
my own parents closely. We want to forget

that flies are attracted to rotting meat,
but we can't. Still, the rays bend over the form

like always, and behind the denial is something lovely,
shapes of minutes and seconds, pockets full of them.