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The Wound

The Wound

Impressionist style painting of the Italian countryside with trees in the foreground and a village in the distance
The summer tide wanders,
a daydream among gentle waves of reverie—
the fizz and laughter of virgin mojitos at dusk,
glass bottle Coke perspiring at midday—
the splintering of a rosemary bush
between the dull blades of garden clippers—
a chapel bell in the valley chimes every sacred hour
between the echoed sighs of a highway three miles off—
a woman, bronze and warm
asleep in noonday sunshine
in love with nothing and no one
but the cool touch of floor tiles
and the blessing of bare feet—
and somewhere in me
still far too alive
there is a wound—
a beautiful wound

made with the knife
of perfect happiness.