Hollowed, the body upon a table; no verbs for the inanimate, a cicada shell. And men in long coats have removed them; peeled flesh — skull over face — sawn through bone cracking walnuts for the meat inside; each soft and hidden part apprised; the inside of your breast, the open boat of your body sprayed clean of gristle; blood pooling, numbered. Those sullen limbs have lost integrity to knife, hose, microphone. But who else holds the bodies of the dead; thumbs the clayed flesh of your father; that last and longest intimacy? No better lover has had such indifferent hands. Look. It demands only, the act of seeing with one’s eyes.