Scrub calmly please and call my sister:
I’m in no hurry, but do not give details
so she won’t worry this time.
It’s not the knife that I’ve been blinded by
as my eyes stopped time; day and night.
It is always winter and there’s a pure silence of the right eye,
black is ennui leaving me to restore some vision to the left.
I wouldn’t have believed in angels and
I won’t condemn the crowd,
a bandaid telling me it’s a miracle.
The priest is silenced by music,
a clutter accommodating.
Discontent is the voice walking
the same words in nakedness.
Halfway opening my eyelids,
my hands wither into waste,
raining off the instant burning,
leaving bodies in my wake.
I’m a quivering tremor
a promise of silent demonstration.