I
never knew nakedness. I was too immature. most of life is spent in nakedness.
seas of souls, brimming smiles, confessed as beginners. whirls of anxiety,
poached ambition, born into condition. so amazed about bodies,
self-reception, reflexive minds. to come to one, bearing nakedness, it has
never been nakedness before. starry eyes, saliva forming, palpitations,
seriousness, rapture, butterflies. it would seem juvenile to dress. it seems
appropriate to bathe. one might need to sit, to dream, to hear a poetic line;
if to harness a moment, to concretize a memory, to redress slowly—lingering,
tugged, I never could let go. such a candid picture, so mesmerized, a
fluttering, a bulb, a map with clues.
I never knew nakedness. I knew
perspectives. I knew too much silence. oceans made moist, pain made gentle,
angels watching, jotting notes, a man dies from lack of romance. the sun has
descended, the stars are witness, in aches the moon is vigilant. to omit wine,
to omit stimulants, to have shyness, embarrassment, understanding. I never knew
nakedness—how it emerges, how it sprouts wings. to carry images, to know/kiss
moles, to caress uncertainty. I never understood nakedness. I was never naked
before.
