I can spill water on your shoe,
if that would help.

My legs are caught between your thighs
as the chestnut blanket wrenches and relaxes
over our bodies.

I'm explaining the deadness
that burrows in my feet
and crawls to my eyes when I
see another.
The parasite
kills understanding.

I'm a medic performing surgery
on myself.
When I slice the oxblood mass,
I find the killer grows
from my lungs and heart and skin
and has since birth, inseparable
from the body.
So I throw myself in the Somme.

Weeks later, strapped
to my bedlam bed,
I see lights crowd the dawn
through the window.
I think a zeppelin is overhead.
Then I realize
these are angels.

And I have men in men-traps.
Can you keep an eye on them?
I'll spill blood on your shoe,
if that helps.