The wound

The wound wells like a mirror with the squandered coins of younger, more legible selves, which otherwise would’ve dulled from daily transactions with weather, lovers, commerce.

A wound is the only way to wear the heart on the sleeve again. It salivates, eager to fold in upon itself & complete the feedback. The shadow of a butterfly shrinks & vanishes in the middle of the field & you turn & raise one hand against the sun, unreachable in its crown of blazing thorns.