writing in blood

i could tell you of depravity should i tell you of depravity should i no i can’t

bring myself these are the worst days of my life when the belly won’t tell you

red or blue and you know it’s red from all the storm dreams but then its blue

from the punches you give it to distract your mind’s overreaction to tears

should i tell you about the bites and itches and raw skin from rubbing

scratching all the invisible bugs crawling on the tops of your feet that is

the thinnest skin to cut and easiest to hide not the wrists a sock is an instant

bandage and a shoe the comfort coverup you can slice an evening’s worth of lines

it will tell your body you are in control no one else discipline

the opposite of depravity           just what doctors never understand 


And finhildre, up and down the stairs, she leapt for it, in chime chester, a wilder bread, not unlike the couple who saved multitudes from last may’s bridge out. Could we predict another spin up? The crowd waiting for their turner, on chemical control. I see the city continuous. The trees in the wind brush around as though they are trying to paint the ground green. The rain swoops up and back down. We brush against strangers and from above it looks as though we are painting them, an infra-color, heat signature, warming each other. Stay seated next to the stranger, touching legs, I don’t know anyone else to cling to and something keeps us together, perhaps dark particles that aren’t so dark after all. And finhildre, up and down, that is her meaning, biocircular. I see the city painting itself in rings, a man and a woman in smokish signals, up and down the stairs, lovish rain streams up and down the bridge, in this city for the magnifiers. We swing through the maps into each others’ arms just like the tiny print said we would on this weekend in the sun’s early round rise. 

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