Have struck but this much show of fire

 Have struck but this much show of fire

 

It’s true our paths could someday cross,

I should not give up this love for lost,

yet sometime waking up, you just know

that razor will slip between nose and lip

and bit liquid will drip from skin on porcelain,

until my mingled blood is watered down.

 

Hands tremble, or our eyes that cannot see

quite as well or clearly or what might be,

skate round yesterday’s wound today

in dismay will feel that old liquid issue,

press crimson morsels ripped from tissue

to keep it from going before it comes around.

 

This fluid that leaks from two chambers into air

does so slowly, at first don’t notice it there,

wipe it on your cuffs, your sleeves, to wear

it like a red badge. My Arab tan that burns

from desert sun conceals in callouses coming,

old flames that are doused by rivers running.

 

It will never quench thirsts or in rapids rush,

but these droplets fall enough to just brush

the day, they invite comments and stray words

to tear up your picture. Spoken and then heard

they ink lines of hardness into lines of face

that can in blood be tracked and traced.

 

I doubt now our paths will ever cross,

while I’m here unfound and you are lost,

and it’s dripping, slipping out and far from

where we cannot catch it on our tongues,

yet it’s still true that you did this inspire

and have struck but this much show of fire.