My skin is white and clear
and wounds cover it,
small and deep and round,
punctures in the clean, sweaty flesh
These summer months,
something is wrong,
and I can't name it:
the sun batters my eyes closed,
my head aches,
I'm weak.
I gather the strength to rake my eyes
over the strong, young bones,
over the impenetrable muscles;
the hairs and the fat are formidable and lively
So why am I laid low
by a taste of poison,
by a beam of sunlight,
by a memory of the desire for greatness?
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