Today this body looks good.
GymBro taught me “goatee is good”
in Alpha-Russian, and pulling a button
off this short-sleeved shirt showed
him, yeah, I can grow hair there, too –
but no rocks call, or sky, or ocean,
no words in waves, no windy voice of
God. My bones don’t sing to me.
I eat myself day after day,
mate myself night after night,
make little puppets out of skin –
as the earth, musical home wide-open,
waits for the sentence to end.
*
Greg Beckman 