Thursday, December 8


Once, I rose dripping
from a bath, and in drying,
my hand descended
from the nape of my neck
into the deepest cut,

right along the shoulder-line.

I touched all those pieces
that grind on each other
carefully, the wet tongue velvet
of the insides of our skin

lapped up against oily layers
and ragged edges, pushed into 
dark places, prodded at wads of 
linen and kerosene-soaked tinder,

my interior landscape primed
for a resurgence,
poised to burn.