The Slitescene Man

A small see-through man
like a translucent pelt among
green tree-roots;

a little glistening skin
among a twig-code.

He is not of glass or cellophane
this man, but his hide
lets light through.

O, he his not like any other men!
In moonlight he casts
something unseen & plump & mushroomy, something

like a burrow's hollow musk.

In sunshine he is a hot sharp moment
of salt-crystal dissolving
across an eye.

I can see red moths fluttering through him,
but only if I
imagine he is there with heart.

His tongue is like a red dog's tail wagging
in the tiny rabbit-hole of his throat,
but only if I
microscope his possible meat & bones.

His voice is like the subsonic sting
of a bat-screech — a neon feeling in my inner ear,
but only if I
measure with precise guesses.

And his see-through penis is like a glistening drip
just slipping from petal-lips,
but only if I
touch his glint-skin with actual ifs.

The man's eyes are closed roses,
if I
don't see him but instead suspect
a truth of an eye-corner.

A small see-through man stuck
to wood, like something
soft coughed up:

a crucifixion of mucous, a star of spit.