1814: Blood Spots

All cells come from cells
& other facts rub at me/

Our place is layer-thin &
ready to cleave [cut out

such thoughts] while we
carry this bag of bones/

Quick-ish siestas muffle
pain’s deviations – those

bruise-lows/ Blemishes
itch with ingrowing hair/

At fifty-six my fun seems
to have run to summer’s

stained trough – rust ires
& cannot be rubbed off/

Spots of blood – imprints
sat in my back catalogue

have faded into that red –
they will never be erased

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *