His nakedness hangs on a hook on the wall.
When it catches on to his gaze, he bows to it.
His nakedness turns its face from him.
It remains.
He wears his brokenness, his fallenness, his not-yet-worldliness.
He wears himself like a ruse; like a vanguard.
When one errs it threads itself in to your world-weariness.
He wants only to be warmed.
Yet eventually each erring becomes worn too.
Faces and places are tried on.
He tried on history then shrugged it off.
But then the livery of a new day does not do- he is boxed in, all angles, all grooves.
His nakedness lives on the hook on the wall, as he welcomes the weekend, in a beast’s rugged fur.
He clutches on to the dimming of the day like rosary beads, as the night sky turns her face to those remaining.
He welcomes her: the sooty, speckled livery as a cloak, now thrown to the dirt, now wrested from it’s caresses with the eternal.
He peels his papers from the pack like layers of his own skin and ashes as an offering to the air.
He drinks his bourbon straight.
Swallows it like the words of a lover who will one day leave.
He makes love in the dark because he knows faces aren’t supposed to have names, then takes breakfast stale and tea cold.
This is a pseudo-skin he wears too.
And when the sky is yellowed, ripened, bruised, he wears that too.
Then Monday comes.
It is a crowning ceremony.
A king he is made, where knees wear the earth.
He reminisces, having made mistresses of Sunday skies.
His eyes meet with his nakedness in the evening, where it remains with a ghastly perfection.
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