THE THIRD WOUND

Early, just before the day notices me, scars me again,
comes The First Wound driven up from the earth
and speaks coldly, in a chilled and lightbroken night:

I am the wind-extinguished light,
the dearest sorrowfriend you met,
all those left traces in the marsh

The Second Wound, cast around self-defence,
gorged in a hopelessly coldstricken embrace
that has soon used up all of this vulnerability
and reached in to Time to be awaken as bent:

Sorrow has played too long on its own board
with Life set up to become a fickle nothing

(Hidden times were fully rooted in advance
as Fate now hands in herself as fully written.)

Final peels of pity scraped down

A cold grip soon to be turned right

There, over this hushed dusk
a trembling candle flickering
risen as shimmering: Clarity,
Home to the very last wound