Wound
J. Michael Wahlgren

The desire to
be found inside
most matchbooks... Look,

it never signs itself,
you provide the pen.
It remedies itself like

a lie that blows up
into a thousand dyes. I
try to color in the lines,

now or winter into
any chromatography
'til the sun delivers

itself home
like a boy lost
as a girl, mint as can be,

skirts along to a beat
that never notices
its own rhythm.

1996 © 2011