Poems aren’t always by appointment,
but, like wounds in the battlefield trench,
must be done quickly, without ointment
or sedative, sawing while teeth clench.
It is butchery more than healing,
amputations to stop the foul spread,
sutures applied to staunch blood spilling
before feelings are anemic, dead;
it is a frenzy of clamps and blades
applied in bloody barbed-wire ditches
while bombs fall all around from air raids—
calligraphy sewn like stiff stitches.