What I Hear My Wrists Plead While I Dream

Joe McClinton
O solemn father,
go easy,
go easy.
Your almighty light
burns the freshness of my skin,
red and tender
from the ching chang
of change, chipping away
at what’s left of me
clinging onto colorless lint
in a rich man’s pockets.

When Lent came
I gave up razor blades and gold chains,
but never the comfort of my wristwatch,
squeezing blood out
of the cracks of underground rivers,
seeping red, no longer separating
my tender insides
from the outside world
where fires start small in big forests,
from pocket lint sprinkled by fallen angels
not thinking of the damage
dust could do.