some flow in bound to wheelchairs; pained graces some stagger in, eyes clutching like ghosts; haunted faces.
but there is no paradise beneath this red cross (like God Himself will bleed) of faith and dying faith.
we limp in as patients and surgeons alike with Schrödinger's hour to live.
we come together—in this Hell of other people—they need us to heal and let heal.
scalpels will slice and scalpels will sing of the bewitching healing their magic will bring.
but i bear a clumsy knife: an awkward root with bristling thorns.
and will never know precision and point and will never split skin nor relieve a curse.
a serrated edge could never cut as deep.
purge me, purge me, and revive me i jumped on the trainwreck, thought i could fly.
and these are the scars i adorn for show not by the crash, but by my own reform.
yet to the others, it's a safety catch: beauty is skin deep—i could not cut the roots.
a wish, a wish, a thousand paper cranes a transcendent lullaby my knife will never sing.
sleep is to heal; sleep is to die insomnia is the between-place where we cannot lie.