what good is a poem under a scab — i keep on peeling and peeling, asking is there more to this skin marred by my restless fingerprints — they've all been but subtle.
what good is a poem under a scab — it still is a wound over which rusty dahlias mourn and spread and maybe if i dig my fingers deep enough, i will find an exit — all ****. all dust. all quiet aching. still, it's an escape.
and what good is a girl under a scab? some of them are made to run — to fashion wings and fly. so darling, seal your wings all you want all poetry and beeswax and prayers to the gods who do not speak your name, and still, the sun would only watch you fall as the sea spray worships your scabbing skin.
all sad things belong to the sea and maybe that is what you wanted.