The Masturbator

We are all so much the same—our size, our shapes, and we are perforated. I put my finger on a crack in my skin. I have been searching for one gesture of my own such as this which I can remember—return to, and return to, which could direct and give sense to my life. I had ignored other motions of my heavy body—the lowering and raising up of my hind end, which I often do. My legs are tired, and I feel weak-kneed, and it looks to me that there is a place to sit down to rest near a tree. This tree’s trunk is a subtle tawny color. The ground is dark, has speckles. I press on my hand. I am still not uncertain what to think when I gently rub my hand, which seems to me dirt-free and oldfangled. There are much more up-to-date revealers of the truth.