Lifeguard Clinging To A Steeple

Why are all the survivors of the needle's eye nude, as if their lifethread had disrobed rather than sewn them. Sans coat-fare, we proceed it seems only to precede; birth to burial, are not yet here. But when did we first start embracing the wakes of ourselves in each other rather than each other? As the fruit falls to hiatus us, its bloom spoiled by last year's cores. Or the sun whose portrait rots in our pores, those sweatbeads blurred in closeup but clear afar-- that pointillist pap, that hybrid suicide. The face carefully tattooed around love's wounds does not itself look injured.