Splash

slow float like driftwood

from a dead sea— salt-worn

sun-bleached and riptide tumble-dried—

wash in as if pushed by a moon-pulled wave

from the vestibule to the triage to

a shore unexplored by the wayward

wayfaring drop of grey ocean

forgo the anesthesia, Doc

I never was one for being numbed

(unless by my own damn hand!)

permission to puncture, Sir

spile me, penetrate enough rings

and you might just find an oil well

I don’t know if cold lumber bleeds

but I’m willing to try; I’ll sap amber

or crimson if it means I’ll finally get to see

some color