The body has a way of knowing, forgiving
a bruise or a cut. The last cut that stayed
a bruise or a cut was the first cut that stayed
on my abdomen. There is a seam. Nothing fades
on my abdomen. There is a scene in which everything fades.
Nothing are stores, seasons, life, consumption, street.
Everything is stores, seasons, life, consumption, street.
A doctor is supposed to be objective, blunt.
Objective, blunt, I picture myself in a white coat.
Rigid, these hands cannot hold what has hurt them.
How can these hands hold what has hurt them?
On Nassau Street, a lemon stings a cut still unhealed.
If unhealed, the street quickens on a ticket called strife.
Bovine, how do I fix what the others have taken?
How do I heal what the others have cut?
Palmer Square bleeds cherry trees at dusk.
Bleeding, I stalk Palmer Square at dusk.
The wind shoves its wrist in my glove.
In my glove, I perform surgery on the wind.
Everything I thought was wind was a body, forgiving.
