Skins

Sedimentary; discarded sleeves and scarves

The sandy bend that was my elbow, crooked

Round old socks long since sundered from their other halves

And ghostly shimmering nylon stockings curled

Like bindweed.  Deposited, blooming with the taint

Of former stages of my seven skins;

A chronicle of past unbuttonings.

I need these layers, this heraldry

That codes and siphons off and binds me here

And keeps me earthed, but, if I could be free

You know there’s nothing that I’d rather wear

Than the crease of your brow emblazoned in my hair.

And you, around that narrow spotless nape,

Might, from time to time, consent a tawny arm to drape.