These days of
spider eyed strangers
how they crawl and scurry
upon my flesh

What to see
the shape of wood and dust
the pall hanging
in the still dead dying air

How particles attach to my skin
sink in
recreate me rough sawn

My mind
the winding of spirals
a jag of splinters
how they protrude
pushed from beneath
pus thrusting wet wood
to surface and jut
with ugly release

Pluck a thought
let the small dot of blood
bulge
dribble watery and
infected

These days
of no one