On my body, you will find
The lines you’re looking for. These creases
are just old enough – for the lines
To not become borders. impenetrable.
Impregnable. Trace your fingers across
My solar plexus, and you will
[Pigeons soar alongside, I see them
Racing to stay in my line of vision
As we hurtle on, epiphanies within
Sight. They throw themselves
At me only to hit duplicitous glass. Now,
The light turns liquid and flows down
The cracks they leave behind.]
Of a million galaxies trickling down.
If you listen closely, there’s bird song
Too. You will bend me, and I will
Comply. Rehearsed; this routine isn’t
A lie. But it isn’t the truth either.
There are only questions in these folds.
These folds that are grey with age.
This is an age unwilling to bend.
But around the bend, lies the answer.