I’m getting versed in the unspeakable:
the architecture of a lung, tributaries
of veins, and pain, all kinds: white-hot,
bone-ache. Removed from all contexts
a bruise can be beautiful: pastel,
galactic, nascent. The way skin
grows up against a suture, shifting
dunes. If all goes well, we replace
ourselves. This is the brachial,
this the subclavian—
remember,
a life is motion, and nothing less.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
You must forgive me that the very first line came across as too raunchy for words… *finds ice bucket and pours*. A stunning philosophy with poetic anatomy.
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Beautiful.
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