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The Steel of your Bleeding
If you are the Circus thrower's knife,
I am the steel of your bleeding.
If you are the knocking of the drunk at the door,
I am the silence of your breathing.
If you are the spring of the kowhai's green,
I am the yellow of your hunger.
If you are the tongue of love’s honeyed breath,
I am the gulled-eyes of the drowning.
If you are the turn of the Russian's gun,
I am the click of the barrel.
If you are the dead gull’s spinning flight,
I am the wired wind at your door.
If you are the roll of the gambler's dice,
I am the severed head at your fall.
If you are the hangman's sweat at noon.
I am the swinging rope of your healing.
If you are the rust of the harpooner's blade,
I am the steel of your bleeding.
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