The incision

The incision
I made over
my kneecap
with pink
blades (specially
for my lady
legs, or so
I assume — sleeping
better thusly)
sighs and stares
at me
like some lover’s
eye, oil preserved, lock
-eted and gilded,
of the rich
opium poppies
blossoming (
I imagine
) from the roots
of my veins
royal blue
and sleep-hazy,
erasing all
that ever was
or will
be in my solipsism
— forging rings,
a lipstick
kiss in
crimson; sin
and apples, snaking
round the bath;
the fall
is weather-perfect
closed eyes,
the sepia flashbulb
of my
lids like dying
leaves; I
could go
to bed, wake
me up
next incarnation as
the sun slumps
behind the slums,
the council estates,
and submarine
close and whisper
like heathen
upon my knees.

The End

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