THE INVISIBLE MAN IN LOVE
Bill Greenwell

I shrug my dumb shoulders,
my see through heart bobbing
on radio waves.

The ghost of a smirk
lurks on the ledge of my lips.

Or I pine, a shadow
of a shadow of myself,
like breath on a temperate day
or a portrait of taste.

I am love with a nurse.
I study her shoes, their clop,
the white linen boat which crests
the wave of her hair,
and the broken watch which she wears,
her medal on her chest.

In heat, I am practically
gelatinous, almost a mirage,
a haze of desire.

Now I am randy for bandage.
I wrap raw gauze round my ankles,
my feet, and soon I am
a rough pair of puttees.

The cotton is hot. I ravel
my thighs, my hips, my belly
in swathes of importunate shape.
Cummerbund, napkin, webbing, chinstrap.
I slice lines for mouth, eyes, ears.

My skull bulges.
Now I am mannequin,
now I am man. This is
an emergency.

I hide in the hospital store
with the swabs and prosthetics.
Hearing the pedantry of her heels,
her beddable voice, I tremble.

And think of her frank hands
undressing me.