Wind peeled the sheetmetal lid off the house
the way it sheared birchbark in silvered rolls,
whittled, bent on diminishing—the warm
cavities of the house lay open, gasping
cold light & air. In each cell a curled body
recoiled, mitochondria enclosing
the corrugated, ruched christae, so much
surface area crenelated, packed
within the smooth outer skin, resembling
the brain’s gyri & sulci crammed into
the bulb of the skull like dampened cloth soiled
with scrubbing & soaked in a bucket —
this is what we are, what we are inside,
what we are inside the complicated
skin. What we are is larger, what we are
is folded in on ourselves, intricate
organization that looks like garbage,
what we are is convoluted, mazy,
continuous looping, what we are is
undiscovered, packed in too small a space,
a bafflement, a Marianas Trench
of unseen phenomena. What we are
is more than —. What we are is the tortoise
in temporary housing built to break
down. Too soon, wind peels the sheltering lid
back. First, folded bodies clutch tighter, shrink
inward, condense. Then their heat escapes,
alcove & crevice left like lace to mark
the borders of our brief interiors.