If I knew my body was a temple.
I wouldn't walk my skin like a graveyard
where sleeps the thinning bones of puckered 
match sticks and lips I didn't want
on my lips in a sloshed meeting
of skin like rain boots in sleet.
I've always been a topographer
of gravel paths and obelisks.
I peel away elbow scabs like hopscotch stones.
My hips are the sacristy if there was 
room for one-- I pray to them
like the sides of canoes or like 
see saws. I leave gas station roses
on my collar each morning. I tell it
that I'm sorry for everything.
I'm sorry I stretch my skin like an empty
canvas and I'm sorry that I only drop 
spoons in the collection basket.
I never meant to burn down my temple
each day and rise by night with the quiet
sway of the monks who dig graves
for unwritten men. 
But that's how I live.
Between kindling, words written in ash,
and headstones as pillows.