This infant flesh
is not my flesh. Nor is this red ink—
soaked sack drying burlap. A red splotch blooms over;
incendiary match
peels fiber from porous fiber
in a drum sprayed with graffiti argot.
A neutral void now,
and perhaps I am sitting too close—
tiny toes crack and pop
in vacuous silence,
like my voice crumbling from my mouth.
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