Of the Wound

The cross pulled from his chest
raises a welt,
leaden in every limb

Sleep can watch for seizures

The legless man had directed him to a window
windows like blind eyes probed the mud
The minutes that were left
ran across his throat stuffed with cotten
and his mouth could hear the distant splashes

A fever and his hand is worse
in the silent film days

He must remain an enigma

They, they climbed three flights of stairs to the night
like a hundred pieces of glass
There were numerous outstretched hands throwing shadows,
a pair of shadows
holding the three cornered hat of a cardinal

We move on to snake venoms

Oh Christ would spit on you
and that's who you remind me of

Beneath a musty green
the wound appears to be dying

Beneath a musty green
the wound appears to be dying

Beneath a musty green
Beneath a musty green
Beneath a musty green
the wound it appears to be dying

the wound it appears to be dying