A Scarlit Night

“Surely My hand founded the earth, and My right hand spread out the heavens; when I call to them, they stand together.”

                        —Isaiah 48:13



In a scarlit night, you need wounds,

Foils, sharp with doggedness,

And blood in the leads; my apartment,

A stored sorrow, cupped hands to sky;

Isaiah, we grind fingers to tine; the last of a kind.


Bled through shoes,

Followed back to a room,

A wall frame, suppurated red…

A daughter put me to bed…said it’s okay to rest.


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