April 29th

In the spring my skin
peels away easy as cabbage leaves
and dries into curls of hard cream.
I can see then how I am gilded
with fat.
Like the seal I blubber myself in winter
and must peel off the thick lace
to feel water again.
I pull it off in one motion, like
turning a sock off inside out.
Then I lie back and try to grow my skin,
cell by cell,
try to think poetry into each,
while outside, the April-swelled sky sleeps in late.