A Stye I Can't Feel

The newborns I feel with the tongue of a snake

Writhing words wrung from mouths of dead

Sailors swearing to the wind

Never to catch them sleeping with men.

We break the seeds hatched in the belly

Of a solitary leech harbored at the center

Of a rough cut sapphire devoid of splendour.

Your wings, tantamount to my needs,

Drape heavily o’er the noonday sky.

The curtain of depravity, draws down below,

My anxious hands feeling the cracked earth,

Praying for dry cries of drought.

The sand between a whore’s thighs,

Her smile sent through the stalewind’s

Lazy gust blows my front door gently open

Leaving me to see, the newborn hung

From a tree, the snake, it’s noose,

My eye, the sun, sewn shut and dried,

Solemnly hovers just beyond the sky,

A reminder to my hands, a stye I can’t feel