The dapple-spark of rainwater, disturbed placidity
echoed in ever-spreading shade the caustic
knife-sharpening act we wear as ill-kempt
tailors tending to the tuning of heart string.
Immaculate as ever the cut of wrist-tied
string we used to trace as breadcrumb, pyre ash
a pagan pirouette sort of ceremony, ancient
dance of drum strike, of churning chemical.
I look redder still, in the mirror more thin
and of softer complexion than some tangled,
matter hair burden's beast where once I stood
in youth's snuffed-candle afterglow.
Still, you strike me,
I quiver as ever.