A blade line, like a scalpel’s sighs
speaks in layers

A dying one’s whis­per
pick­ing seams from the edges of a hush­ing pulse
the edge taut and ten­sile
not cold, but con­vers­ing
vow­els pass from the del­i­cate cut
as you swipe in fan­cy
a clean cheek-in tongue scar­ring stroke
releas­ing res­o­nance
open­ing cells of skin-soft­ened chords
epi­der­mis, der­mis and so forth
until you meet the flush of liv­ing words

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