Skin (September)

There is nothing, in the universe, like the peculiarity of our skin. It suits us, you could say, and we haven’t another. Metaphysicals said it transpires with instant fires; they’re not alone. Consolation comes from thinking our skin breathes all day. It’s delightfully non-neutral, blushing with embarrassment, shining with happiness. When we get a September bug, it pales. They would chip it, stretch it into magazine beauty, but it bleeds all the same. Sometimes dozens of temptations appear in indelible blue ink. Placid oft times, then angry at a bite, a canker, or hit. If dirty, water does the trick.