Marks.

The way they catch the light is almost beautiful

I'd like to say that the silvering is a way in
to loving what is already mine, but it is not.
All it means is a lack of blood supply,

cut off at the root—no way back. It is too easy
to trace their expression as a map,
or the sadness of learning; the distance

you have to come. Really they only lead
from themselves to themselves.
They do not make routes, or define me

except I know where they do not appear:
my fingers, my ankles, the front of my legs.
My lower arms. My face.