perfection, everything in its skin

everything in its skin.

there is no such thing as sin
there is no real transgression
because everything is held in its skin.

violence is an illusion
there is no inviable intrusion
even if blood spills
its surface freezes in the chilling air
and as it clots, it too has a where.
and where it escapes, that jagged tear
it too has a shape and a there.

suffering has no basis
even if time never reaches its anagnorisis
and the bud bears its pregnant suffering
without blossoming or bearing,
time itself has a skin
the moment frozen like a sliced
branch with concentric circles
of endurance,
perfect and round,
in it all no sound
of scream or groan
just another photographed moment
silvered and grey as stone.

everything in its skin
everything under the sun
like the sun held by its edged corona

or all sight held by the lid.