There are bruises all over my hips, my legs. There must have been an instant, a breath after impact where blood vessels ruptured and suffused away from the root. Like an ink pen pressed, giving fault lines to stark paper. With motion matching the invisible second in which the morning glory burst and spreads. But I am only afterward given the blemish, the marking, the color blooming on my thighs.

Mustn't they make noise, these inner-workings of cells? They ought to shriek as we stumble and slice. Sigh as we burst and release. Well I won't rely on internal fictions, for it seems that they only abet our overwhelming ignorance of all divine motions. I must grow ears on my organs.