Wounds, brush before me, a boy, pale one, no death.
Spill latex blood, the body as a mirage syndrome.
Fingers point the battle, crape swept ashore
A patient. Sundew boiled in heat. Again, dermis separates,
Right and left. A blurry eye, cannot define light!
Sour your age, clocks, snap the mischief grey of time.
Tossed on the greenfield, She lifts, seconds before dusk.
Leaves, stairs’ face, number line before the left wing.
We repeat the mantra “Heal.”
Pain, turpentine coat. Dusk, beware. And drown in longing.
Burrow the madness a sack rots. In healing, button the bones
A blue whale: seven feet short, walks to death, fabrics loose.
Two boys. My mother floats. The grave is a garden for the dead.
Sway as you would, they, medics and poets put the soil first.
As scars would, on fire, label her structure a healing poem.