Hail

Morituri

Not yet dead but blistered,

As wound by wound aching

Burrows in weeping skin

Furrow sterile rows; suspense

Hovers over the identity

Of the checkerboard graft

Laid on top, for apparently

It need not be identical to

My moon-translucent skin,

But may instead be tough,

Scaled to new callousness or

Soft, perhaps, not rough, nor rude.

Time consigns each crop

To a separate field, and no will

Imposes order on the riot feud.

te salutant

I have become resigned to this

Haphazard patchwork shell--
The naked skin rubbed raw
In the wind. What fell on the flesh
Is the end, is the seed.

And the death of what once was

Is still the birth of what will be.

EJR