The body is a semaphore, a stem
of signals. Its messages bear more
suspense, more weight of sense, than derelict
desires, the shards and wires shoved through the door
of formulaic sentences, bent
along the contours of senescent thought,
chewed to the dismal fading of their scent.
The body can contain its own intent:
be what it means; demarcate, interdict,
say go ahead with nothing but a shift;
no sullen hieroglyphics. Its allure
is caught in hatching metaphors that crash
against the shore of skin (uncanny hem
of consciousness), fresh fragments from the core
of breath. The body is a semaphore.