Physical pain befuddles thinking,
splashes in a murky puddle,
a race on lanky legs
through marsh land
with no guide, map or directions.
Emotional trauma will isolate
the smallest of sensations,
follows the silky flow of blood
left in the wake of the razor’s kiss.
When you wake with whiskey
on your breath, and her kiss
on your mouth…
more experimenting: using words from the
Sunday Whirl, each stanza is in the form of
an American Sentence…more or less.