The problem

with saying the problem

is everything is

human is one of those

always already

theoretical conundrums.

The problem is everything

is funneled into language

before we even taste the air

is humid and the body is

swaddled to hide it from others.

Hide, noun, the skin

of an animal. Or hide, verb,

to keep out of sight,

as in the sentence: the sacred relic

had been hidden away in a sealed cavern,

with the dictionary’s passive voice

hiding its subject,

perhaps just a kid still,

digging holes in the backyard

to stow away a colorful rock,

some coins, a time capsule,

childhood itself

not yet subterranean.

To hide it from others.

As if there were a self

contained by atmosphere

alone, and not

just the word self holding me

like a hand-knitted skin,

a nebula. As if from, say,

outer space, I could look

into a single eye

when I pluck up the planet

and hold it

by the scruff of its neck.

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