A giant’s used sock goes limp in the institution where
future bodies are archived. Dimensions die to produce
branded surfaces. What of them? Shadows, sutured
shadows preventing the earth from bearing fruit.
Stretched rinds, collapsed bladders, nothing but
preserving preservation.

Eggs mirror shadows. Bathtubs of embryos waiting to
world themselves. Mud is a fingernail, every forehead
an egg: a mirror, glossy, translucent, cracking.

Spine-towers, honeycomb armor, the melody-shelf of
vertebrae. From the bin grows a machine-plant fruiting
an abstract posture.

Here animals were opened. Now the opening continues
without them. Skin the scale of architecture. Husks
waiting, cargo unknown. Every surface a breached membrane.

We hold on to things by skinning them.
We know what a thing looks like naked.

The way forward goes through the wound,
which is another name for beauty.