Delicate

The littlest of things
pockmark thoughts
burrow holes
onto dreams

The thinnest of papery
onion skin
marks me
bluely translucent beneath

This pulsing of red
rushes heart and then head
with its hands upon time
twisting it blind

flashing 12, 12, 12, 12
on a digitized face
and its mechanized soul

A real unreality
true-to-life fantasy
frenetic, fanatic
the casting, the story
would be

If it were not for the sin
of living in skin
so powdery soft
and slivery thin

Our mouths would be gape
with truth in their taste
and in giving and taking
no bile would waste
nor even for a moment,
a shiver

Vanessa Nix Anthony