The way to heal an old wound is to dig in
with a urine-washed claw, scrape the bottom
then write a poem about that
A poem beginning with
To live is to dive into the Sun, is to become
something of water and fire
Absent of breath, the fissure familiar to
and other than a soul not belonging to a life of its own, a divide
mended by thoughts in print revealing thin lines
with wholeness surrounding
where souls entangle in a combustion of misery, voilà!
Compassion is more than a possibility.
The writer’s short sighted hand recounts far less
in a poem ending with
Everyone but the witness dies in the fire.
2.19.15 with American bison