it uncloaks
from itself—
its own ghost-
ly paper. A leg
of mostly air
remains in air.
The hollowed
onionskin bulbs
where eyes once lay
look out on the field.
The din of it.
A new body
is painful. Exposed,
it must retreat
what was once inside
further inside.
Globe perched
on translucent needles,
the articulated twin
chooses tomb or home.
It violates a form.
Bud like a fist.
Like a thought
about to give
out. There is a pink
so clear and pale
a rose can’t
call it kin.
A dwelling clutches
close to itself—
Its what?
Its brief solitude
before welcoming
the traveler
to crawl
its repeating galleries
to wait in holy center. 
It drags 
the outside there.

Copyright © 2022 by Emily Skillings. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 4, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.