no ideas but in wounds, I is that wound

with its slight aura, archival glamour, gaslit corridors,
its famous sunsets that day-glo on water

the storied rays travel

to consider wounds that grow through life, illuminate,
and expand into a primal struggle

to be able to say, I was here

an everyday annunciation the wound lifts from sorrow,
and it grows, taking years to love

a wound in all its glory

days go on watching clouds change into the mirror
of the world, which is my face

which is a threshold, a name, a proving ground,