wound

Counting wild raspberry thorns, like starsMapping out the faces, some pricks and sweet,some sourBehind the constellations of the scarsThat remind me that I'm quick

Or dead, not unlike a ghostFloat out down the shore and wash up on the coastAnd rub salt in it

The waves beat and breakIn violent war against the shorelineNatures vulgar trauma quakesThe birth of its demise

Or prize, a golden knifeThe sick and beaten wifePry the glass from it

The torch shines lightThe glaze of fresh bloodInto day or nightThe splinters spray a prism red

Or pink, the petal of the flowerWith my pestle pulverize it's powerAnd rub beauty in it