SKINFIELD

There is a place on her ceiling

That looks like a door plastered over

And it is there that I focus

When I am dissolving

I imagine there are fields beyond

That door made of her skin

And flowers that turn to watch me

With her blue eyes

There are hills and valleys like the cleft

Between her nose and lips

And mountains like the

Spine at the base of her neck

There is also a river of creamy

White water that laps against

Her skinfield and it is

There that I wash when I open my eyes.