Rosemary

Parted flesh, tender and grateful

like a horde of worm-centered tangerines

would grasp for a new surface to fold over

and become a division of.

Butcher-born desperation of this sort only, 

tips a broken scale and runs

near frozen out the typical

hematophobiac’s ice-capped vessels.

Oh, to be embraced between the

densely populated lips of two

brilliantly staged wounds and the

chapped smile of the chasm-oriented

blade…would be a rebirth into a

delightful, near cerulean web of ecstasy.

There, warm between chipped, gnarled

bones and sweet, nectar-filled blood cells

is where heart-shaped beads remain lodged,

welcoming in perfectly sketched,

new diseases.

And every marrow-dreg brought to the

surface of boiling, raw flesh

associates itself with smoothly plotted

bubbles and an unbiased sting.

And acid-scars breathe,

threading cleanly through each

delicate layer of skin,

pushing upward, birthing

rosemary pores.

And plasma claws a narrow path

onto night-blooming patterns

snugly printed into the sky,

conducting onward a different,

pale shade of which implodes

like an over-used pin-cushion

into the unraveling scroll of

ceaseless whitened lies.