I have ideas like salted wounds
words poured from a shaker stinging and
flung over shoulders superstitiously
and if the slug of cohesive thought
were to crawl over those ideas, it would
burn or melt or something, and anyway die
and what would happen to the words?
some no doubt mixed with my blood, would
become part of me, or anyway, dry onto me
like a shell of masochistic poetry
and some would have mixed more with
the burning melting full-on thought
which would also dry to my skin, unless
I brushed it away, wishing for less coherence
as if that were possible