John Biscello

Sometimes,

it is just a marginal thatch of shadow

slivering a cheek,

or the rounded vowel of dimple

puckering brazenly a bare knee,

or the laser surgery performed

on my small, fearful history,

by a stray, smoldering gaze,

it could be any of those things, really,

and I am bowed, supplicant to a crush,

and enclosed distances.