Eric Cline
THE CIRCLING RIVERS THE BREATH
after Walt Whitman
i.
Of holes in my arms: flesh disrupted, not shattered
but pushed aside, from side to side beside the bone,
meandering around the maze of meat. Of scars
on my legs: effects having long outlasted their
causes, what is as monument to what is no
longer. Of hair: less out of place than no longer
concerned with where to go. Of joints singing: softly.
ii.
Of joints’ singing: gone mum, aware how awfully
clearly they would bellow joy which the hatemonger
outside the tent cannot know. Of hair: soft as doe
eyes, pools whirling as fingers skip like stones, ensnare
each other’s currents. Of scars on my legs: afar
you will see still. Of holes in my arms: what you’ve sewn,
filling the hollows like holes you’ve elsewhere battered.