Lingering prints

left all over my form –

evidence, clues

hallucinatory testimonies

from visitors who departed some time ago

all of whose names matter no longer –

yet aged deposits

of remembered touch

at the angular and

sharp cleft of my jaw

inside the tucked, soft

flesh of my elbow

below the puckered

scar tissue of my knee

within the barely-controlled

jungle of my hair

these locales on the topography

of my figure

sing with ever-tarrying illusions

of contact

that can never be

territory washed anew

Yet there are sites none

could ever lay claim to

locales stubbornly kept secret from

any wayward

or welcomed transients

and even from my own consciousness



tangled within the creased folds

hidden away in my skull

exists the doggedly supported notion

that falling in love

is only referred to



as such

because we all


strike ground.

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