of a white coat drag
and the seams of them are openly unraveling like spiderwebs.
I question the small stitch
missed. The flat white is a glass dam.
Fear and pain wells up on the other side.
I can see it in their eyes
threads of glass
coarse and aching.
What are words or tears or touch
when all is smooth and closed? I don’t
know either. I stand and watch the dam make a deep lake deeper
the fish drinking the blood water
and becoming fat. Alone
the spider travels from epicenter to edge
and the web is stark
and scentless beneath its legs.