POEM
Drown your eye in drops
of saline to draw
a lash from between
the crease of ball
& lid. Blood shot
through veins begins
to curtail as you
curse at the sight of
sprigged lash slipping
down further, ‘round
the curve, beneath
the bend. Tucked under,
you grow restless
& wish you were King
Lear so you could
swipe a finger
through that hole
in your head without
regret, to not
worry about those
little pieces of oneself
from influencing
& inflicting the greater
you; unfortunately,
they always do.
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