St. Anthony’s Fire

What do green eyes have to do with

superior tissue connectivity?

Fluttering under a grainy stamp of light,

it is your own fragmented,

insidious gospel.

A tripped tongue’s left to speak.

It’s the torn ligament,

bleating warm,

sun-weathered pressure

beneath and between swelling

and swollen muscles.

Impervious and immobile,

these gaping notions are

sorer than an

open wound,

wound around

the toiled, abrasive sect,

tracing chalk-line dashes on(e) foot

back to the platform;

a place set for generous

fever.