Skin is Time and Lets Itself be Flayed By Iain Bamforth

He saw, or thought he saw, his skin become time’s curvature … Having peeled it off, he holds it up for further inspection in this troubled classical landscape: Apollo’s deep bare garden. and his a skin of tenderness, a hammock of social obligation and naked reconciling in the city of the covenant (impersonal love of the human at the service of his art), not the see-through foolscap of a world made flat, one surface that everywhere folds into the trite hosannas of Eros’s other job— unprofitable bookkeeping …