What’s laid bare?

What’s laid bare inside the animal skin
I sometimes call my self?
A dying man, a loft?
Nothing?

What’s laid bare when I lay this city to waist?
When my fires besiege the ancient ruins 
Of my former human Self?
A beast, God?
Gathered vanilla dust?
What remains hidden?
What’s laid bare?

What’s laid bare beyond these mountains
Of plastic-wrapper ideals and valleys of tangled dreams?
Vengeance, severed heads?
Empty persistent lacking?
Whose words have I come to speak?
What shadows remain lurking behind the corners of my eye?

What’s laid bare when I play antler, duduk melodies
And smoke popsicles of bubble-gum seaweed, all by myself?
What musky, green ideas sleep furiously within me,
Sheltering, terrified of beige?

What’s laid bare,
Trembling in the crevices beneath me?
I look up and I am this unwelcomed, two-legged lamp post
Walking at 4 am on Bochum city streets.

What’s laid bare?
What lays these pestering clouds,
Slanting towards me with strange questions as to where do I begin?

What ancillary metamorphoses take place at the very edges of my skin?
What molecular devastations self-destructed within me as I was asleep?
What parts am I to lay in these grounds? What cellular funerals?
What nameless eulogies am I to read this morning
For fragments and memories, I didn’t even know I had?

What’s laid bare,
Seeping out of my cracks,
Crawling towards refuge in unity?
What bears witness
To the permeating, unmoving spaces
Wedged between these blades of grass?

What’s laid bare when I stop writing?
What’s laid bare
When silence conquers the earth?