There is no limit to the times
a poet can mention the body.
Life is recursive but speaking of it more so:
this body that stirs, or fails to
this barely defined shoulder
my body beside someone’s but not yet yours
The perseveration of the artist—
details of a nude, portrait studies.
Language found in the body: breath, rib, bone.
the natural world in the body:
your body isn’t the restive field it was
the weedy acres of your brow
Body, exhausted by metaphor—limited, earthbound.
Words can’t capture how it falters, breaks,
how there may be something more.
and if spirit exists—
do I open the window and let it fly?
create words for the body’s fresh landscape of death?