I love the lap that I am in.
My brow—combed, thumbed.
My heart, overt, beating finally.
I am all head and certainty—
An acceptable frailty.
The immaculate ivory
Immersing me
To the innermost places
Of graces, of the shiest softnesses
Where scars usher and scatter
Such sheer happiness.
This is the life—
Folding and unfolding.
This is a point, the line,
The curtains, the start—
A noon rid
Of promises.*

© 2015 J.S.P.