Soft Gold

Every lining presses itself 
against; lies mostly without noise 

in the undercurrent. You've seen 
the thick strip of fat before 

it's rendered, before it's peeled 
away from skin. Each layer 

takes you deeper, until nothing 
remains except a circuitry of spooled

wind-chimes. O ivory and argent: listing
left or right, depending on which shoulder 

you'd favored with most of your burdens. 
Under the dome of each knee, a rubbery 

crescent; it brittles with cold, radiates 
stiff feathers. You've grown to become  

all your specimens. Now, no one else 
mistakes those parts and pelt for soft 

gold: only the one who cradles your head in
his hands, burnishes the hum in your throat.


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