You are unknown to me, some unprecedented thing
of beauty or agony, I’ll never know. (I found out).
We discover the entropy of each other’s veins
before we know our names. You’re unfettered,
then, because you’ve taught me that to love is
to expurgate the self, to care is to separate one’s
skin, to stretch out one’s styrofoam dermis
across drying racks of reticence so that you
can take it when it’s desiccated and drape it
over your flesh: a thing overflowing with moisture,
once soft, turned tegument in such cycles of agony.
Some part of me regrets this already, us:
works of art in a desecrated museum under which
rests a single rusted bronze plaque, on which is written: