A Human Body

Curled tight on the sidewalk (I want to say
like a shell-less mollusk or large fetus),
his arm obscuring his face, T-shirt hiked,
he dozes, his back exposed, the smooth white
page of his flesh speckled with bites. Tiny 
torturers (scabies, fleas, or bedbugs) have 
gorged on his soft self. Red welts radiate 
where fingernails have scraped. I want to say
his back looks like something else (dystopic 
wallpaper with rosy wounds for flowers,
or the terrain of an angry planet), 
but to do so would distort the story.
That back is what it is, specific to
one human, asleep in his fragile peace.

(Published in Nimrod)