This private thing
lives in public
wrapping blood
and liver,
heart and bone
in fragile armor
to guard us.
Sensing enemies,
it hurls armies
against invasion.
We hardly know
our resident warrior.
It transmits bulletins
by the second:
soft chair, rough floor,
smooth shirt, harsh seam,
cold foot, warm hugs,
cream on sores,
rash from leaf,
forefinger smoothing
quivering bird wing,
thorn alert. This messenger,
this Hermes, speaks
privately until death.