Like an afterthought of little stance and weight,
I slip beneath your skin, biting a yawning wound
Inside layers of familiar twill, finger compliantly
The folding warmth, before the veins loop me internally.
I stand your Achilles, stretching from ankle to heart,
Glowing on arcane search parties in and out your width,
Across the mangled temptations of self-sufficiency, at large-
One thing flies higher than any windless kite on your skies.