The Official Site of Author Joseph Heywood-Non Fiction

[Portage, August 15, 2009]

My summer flesh mottles invisibly
Flush with yeasty toadwarts of spleeny,
Uneven hues ranging scarlet to brown
Defying classification as white.
Rarely do skins or genes express all facts,
The packages we parade about in
Suggesting depths, revealing little more
Than we dare allow slip to light of day,
Living in shadows of a shadow world
Where substance is as rare as pure-born air
And promise dribbles wide of clear marks,
All of us artless craven mud-makers
Here only to fertilize our graveyards