Most of what enters us is not visible.
What if there were a tracking device for it,
a dye, a dust. Like the powder that clings
to surfaces that fingers have pressed against.
That is some detective’s job: to manufacture
the moment of contact, to prove who has
touched what. If you could toss this visibility
powder onto me, what impressions and streaks
would materialize. An infection snaking up
to my ear, or a sooty veil of doubt shrouding
my face. An exit wound in my back, just
below the heart. An iridescent film along
my whole body, indicative of experience
nestling into memory. What would we be
tracking. Would shapes and shadows pulled
from the air show what looms above.