If I rubbed you where that rub would burn
That burn that bred in me a swell, would you in turn
Flow riverward and feed my bruise, front this lust
For heart and horn, and yeasting wake within yourself
An echoed form so that we twinned and so reworked
The substance bled and borne from home, and angled home?
If you built within your soul a roof for showers,
And let them flow on my command, would I respect
The avenues that rivulets encountered, birthed
Along the slats and rolling downhill to your cut?
If you didn’t have the scar I haven’t seen
I would invent it, and press it softly to you
For you display no damage sign
which shocks my feel of what is right. You smile
In green-brown with your eyes, which cuts
A path and makes a way. But static is the slur
With which you try to beat me back: I’m stuck,
You say: also blasé, and anonymous and aging,
Sagging with gray rain. And if you touch my scar
Let pain, I say.
If you peeled me till no burn would mind
If raining from your roof was ever all
If rivers fed these thousand thoughts of fear
Till fear flowed inside-out, then skin become
A badge of secrets on display, and pain is bright,
And rubbing horns would make the night the day.