Shorn

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Locking the door to the bath, 
opens the collar of the shirt, 
raises chin, fingers buttons 
from their holes, lengthens torso,
molts like a snake. 

In the arms, clutches 
the folds of shirt and pant, 
lifts the scent to the face, 
breathes deeply, intimately 
the incense. 

With other eyes, follows 
the bare arm from shoulder 
down, lusts for the soft muscles
of the chest, combs its hair 
with curious fingertips. 

In the mirror, spreads arms 
and legs symmetrical 
like the sketch by Da Vinci, 
studies anatomy as geometry, 
subtracts all familiarity. 

Massages the circles of shoulders,
then the rounded rectangle 
of abdomen, pushing down 
to the lines and length 
of thigh and loin. 

Bathes, water runs 
in rivers down the back, 
twists around legs. Fingers 
bead the water condensing 
on skin as on glass.

Drinks, slides the tongue 
through the dew that gathers 
in the downy fur of the forearm,
tastes the steam, heat 
and innocent sweat. 

With long, rapid swipes 
smooths the silver razor 
down beard and neck, 
reckless, savoring the kiss 
and the sting of the blade. 

Insatiate, the knife lingers in the hand,
steel caresses the eager flesh 
of scalp, breast, stomach, 
thigh—the dark hair washes away
leaving the man naked. 

Like a voyeur, stares 
at the raw skin, the scratches 
wet with blood and rain streak,
lace this body with pink watercolor.
Cut clean.