Projection: Bending to the Body's Geography
The bible tells me that inside this body there is another body. Inside this body lives a man. He uses a razor to scrape memories that harden and cling to organs. He sighs as I inhale. Our interlaced ribs swim as we sleep in the same room. We do not touch but coexist. Sharp edges. There is no speech but silence reads. A long shadow careens through day bend. We carry our own cells. While I see violet blossoms smashed on hot sidewalks and lilacs thicken air, he sees a rocky canyon and winter paths of dust. When a double-edged mirror stands between two people it slices a patchwork formed by the sunís lips. This is pressed between trees. The two do not touch but understand.