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