I put up a hand to halt the sun.
It blinds, levers up the skin
like a chisel, hammered in by the sky.
I have no call for sunshine,
it rests uneasy on my lids,
exposes, makes all naked. The dark cracks
hidden at the corner of the eye,
in the garden paving stones,
are thrown forward, silhouetted.
Each black wrinkle
smoothed by a light touch,
now examinable, each mistake
stretched into detail, like a concertina.
The table of the sky
now cleared, as if for a dissection.
Perhaps I will give you the instruments,
before the hot days come,
let them glint a moment on the palm.
Now split me open, take out the dark stuff
if you can: this sun beneath my skin is white,
it hugs your eyes, keeps you from looking in.