"Skin remembers how long the years growwhen skin is not touched, a gray tunnelof singleness, feather lost from the tailof a bird, swirling onto a step,swept away by someone who never sawit was a feather. Skin ate, walked,slept by itself, knew how to raise a see-you-later hand. But skin feltit was never seen, never known asa land on the map, nose like a city,hip like a city, gleaming dome of the mosqueand the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.Skin...
