Morning is linen
creased beneath the shoulder blades,
a cool sheet of cotton
drawn tight across the ribs.
The mattress gives slowly:
foam, then spring,
then the hard stuff beneath.
A palm against the lower back:
warm skin,
five small ridges,
the dry grain of bone.
Walking:
heel, sole, toe.
The spine keeps its quiet row
of hinges and knots,
wood rubbed smooth
where a hand has passed
again and again.
Sometimes a thread pulls
(thin, hot, almost bright)
from one side to the other.
Sometimes only pressure:
a thumb pressed into clay,
a stone beneath folded cloth.
Chair against shirt.
Shirt against skin.
Skin against the blunt edge
of the day.
At night,
the back meets the mattress
like wet earth meeting rain:
cool,
dense,
unmoving.
Until the body turns,
and the fabric whispers
over the bone.