Lying in soft blankets, in the first warm morning sun I’ve seen in a while, next to a man I don’t recognize.

A handful of heavies
or a basket of
bold men

They've pocketed
parts of my
body

To expose oneself to the
heat of the sun
I take to the sun,
something evident
I can describe

Someone as heavy
(hard to lift and thick)
as the man in this bed,
grimacing in his sleep

I'm thin lying down
looking up at the sun.
If he were a man
he would know who I am
he would see through
my transparency

Someone as heavy
(easy to drop and soft)
as the man in this bed,
knocks over bottles (and brash)
he swears in his sleep

I am surely gone
tomorrow,
tripped over fragments
of rubble
as of stones

I am surely gone
tomorrow
quick so the lines
in my face don't
thicken
leaving him any
dark impression

I've followed my
love line
around the contour
of my hand
to see if it
ever meets up
but it just
washes away
in a cascade
of wrinkles
through
mountainous
ridges of knuckles

I would be
made of
splints, rushes,
strips of wood
and he would
be the fragments
of rubble
I would hold
him (heavy)
dutifully

He would sit
body bent
at the hips
spine nearly
vertical
passive and inactive
the same way the
wind sits
in the
east

Never to be
characterized
by bends, curves or folds
never to smooth
my skin or
correct my
furrowed
brow

He would be
made up of
nailed together
pieces of ply
I would be the
grain or the coal
put away
for storage

I’m pocketable
A handful of heavies
will tell you
they’ve followed my
love line
around the
contour
of my hand
and it doesn’t
meet up
it just washes
away in a cascade
of wrinkles
through
mountainous
ridges of knuckles

He wakes up and
I say,
I’ll pocket my pride
if you’ll pocket me

Enclosed from sight and understanding
I would fold up into his leather wallet
Wrapped in money and funny papers
Enveloped in the warm soot