There is so much beneath the surface
of what we are being told,
like cream rising to the top of milk,
like layers in the ocean,
like light filtering in only through the top.
The rest is inky darkness,
so much life and truth swirling beneath the surface.

Under everyone's face,
there is blood and nerves, and vessels.
Under everyone's breath,
are whispered things that carry lightly in the wind.
Under clothes,
there are body parts, soft and fleshy and covered,
like vegetables in an underground cellar.

There is so much beneath the surface.

This is the covering, the concealment.
The layer of ice on a frozen pond,
the hard covering of crème brulee,
the grass growing over Alice's fantastical rabbit hole,
and the tough skin growing over the fruit of knowledge