:::poetry
Counting wild raspberry thorns, like stars
Mapping out the faces, some pricks and sweet,
some sour
Behind the constellations of the scars
That remind me that I'm quick

Or dead, not unlike a ghost
Float out down the shore and wash up on the coast
And rub salt in it

The waves beat and break
In violent war against the shoreline
Natures vulgar trauma quakes
The birth of its demise

Or prize, a golden knife
The sick and beaten wife
Pry the glass from it

The torch shines light
The glaze of fresh blood
Into day or night
The splinters spray a prism red

Or pink, the petal of the flower
With my pestle pulverize it's power
And rub beauty in it
:::