Layers of skin, piled all around
My wrapped-up network of veins,
Arteries and muscles.
Only some parts project outward,
Blink in the air, like eyes, sunder
In three my exposed face-disc –
Or wounds, puncturing blubber:
Antibodies pour to the point of entry,
Grieve over the intrusion,
Pick up the pieces of my flesh,
Make flush the gap of death.
Underneath my skin nothing
Is allowed in.
Shrink-wrapped, shelled up,
My organs suck and push
My bones shine full
My joints wrench sideways
- exhilarating effort I do not see
Beneath the outward projected image
Of my skinny self -
What untold discipline!
Down under my closed skin
I do not feel what happens;
My heart is only in one place,
My nerves merely react.
I wonder who it is
Taking care of me.
© 2007 Richard Townrow
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