animal body

The hairs on my body form circles.

Light curls make shapes, ovals, opals.

I find hours to touch them gingerly,

above from the reflection of a pot,

or while standing on an elevator,

I look up, then touch the side of my

ear, where hair forms, returns, pets

and pats itself, like that on my upper

arm, see here now, my cheek, the down.

I’m comforted by my animal being,

who asks for no more ambition than

the breath and a good stretch occasionally.

I’m thrilled with the way it moves, not

through time, not out and long and firm,

but rather into itself, like sleep,

like how I find my form, at dawn.