is what I would ink on my wrist
if I had the nerve for etching
(or more precisely, permanently,
no nerves in me at all).
my left wrist, probably, and askew,
the notch between bowl and stem
of and per se and as the arrowhead
at the delta of a ghost-blue thread.
curling my hand heartward
it might shyly hide in folds,
pressing deeply, so succinctly
into neophytic skin.
pale and bared in receiving alms,
deceiving despair, it may remain plainly
a contradiction of itself,
the abbreviation of continuance.
whispered, compressed, ever-present,
this ligature leans forward in flesh,
a pair of characters embedded,
silently saying please persist—
and the list goes on.
and the rest will follow.
and these things too.
and so forth, and so forth,
and so, forth.