subtext

The rough stones, I stack

in a circle around me,

slowly wear the skin from

my fingers until they bleed.

Nearby, but far enough,

you too build your circle

mixing traces of blood

into the wet mortar.

This is how we live:

each day we wait—

for a new excuse

to slowly bleed out,

then lay the last stone

of our sarcophagus. 

(September 19, 2022)