Of the Wound

the cross pulled from his chest raises a welt, leaden in every limb
sleep can watch for seizures
the legless man had directed him to a window
windows like blind eyes probed the mud
the minutes that were left
ran across his throat stuffed with cotton
and his mouth could hear the distant splashes
a fever and his hand is worse in the silent film days
he must remain an enigma
they climbed three flights of stairs to the night
like a hundred pieces of glass
there were numerous outstretched hands throwing shadows,
a pair of shadows
holding the three cornered hat of a cardinal
we move on to snake venoms
Christ would spit on you
and that's who you remind me of
beneath a musty green
the wound appears to be dying