Skin

Poem by Jack Greer in response to my photograph above 

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Shadowy creases flatten
under scrutinous glare
whose pale sheen exposes maroon
gashes split tight like ripe fruit. 

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Scars of longitude ripple
out from some quiet crevice
where self-hatred scuttles,
catching rashes of sunset.

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But no one can see you
in dysphoria’s dusk fuzz,
where photons flitter in cold cosmic noise
like eye floaters, or phytoplankton.

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Only skin-to-skin gives form,
the mingling of surfaces and layers
like waves caressing each other.