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