Natura, as in birth,
deceiver, material fact in perceptual fiction;
to which the bird sings and flesh returns, shallow earth roiling with worms in mud;
your body is mine- on great gusts you carry my breath.

Your skin, parsed, has become a word of my soul; a flesh folded dove unclasped in freedom from a party trick,
soaring outwards on dreams turned luminous through countless lies and premonitions, unfurling in worldly frenzy.

You have inveigled me in flattery to become an exertion-
an eye, an ear, a mouth, a hand, a nose, a science;
to study the motion of which I am indifferent consequence, to crystallize the miracle of myself in my skin-
to learn and forget.