the flint of cheekbones
under the skin, unstained by age
beneath the soft tissues that haven't raised a smile in days
there's been nothing worth laughing at
or about
trace these irregular bones
go gently with a calloused and hang-nailed fingertip
a dark crescent of dirt to be picked at later with a wooden toothpick
barbeque chicken wings and grease from a motorcycle's engine
up the hot flesh of a friend's thigh
searching for a lover
this meat, warm pink
ripe peach
gives way to probing
and bruises
brown and green and yellow clouds that fade with time