Like All Other Blood

In every formula of human preening
there is a gravity point
where healing can happen,

where the premonition of a wound
bristles like the hair at the back of the neck
and we turn toward love

like all other blood,

like a child to a rain puddle,
a pen to the paper of a writer at first light,
like a dirty farmer returns to the fields each spring.

This constant exercise of the mind
trying to chronicle one kindness
in the face of so many injuries
is depleted.

Death by a thousand cuts;
the story no heart can hold
with arms too tired to embrace,

when will it all be over?