Impetigo...

{wrists photo credit: D. Cote}

The infection begins to clear

off my arms (where it looked like acne;

now looks dry and barely

red), With healing-itches.

And that is a call for

Celebration, for eating just past full:

to where I can forget what

hunger is and don't really

want anything, But just am—

On a couch, with a cat

(dog-like in his affection for my

hand along his fur-socked

skull) and with crumbs

I will leave resting

on the table

'Til tomorrow,

Where they will be

Wanted (tasting sweet again, oh

desire Makes my senses full)—

This tickle of salt and slip

of oil will raise, again,

a dimple. I think

All pleasures

In life are

          dark on the backside,

        gone as they come,

       all as they are: just

     just echoes of some-

   thing

simple.