A Port Wine Stain


spreads over your eye:
a face in the window
of an attic.

Everything here is
its deepest red.

I saw a man
who fainted,
and the heat
lay over him
like a body
too heavy
on a woman
in bed.  You

steep to brown
in the sun, except
there, where
some wild thing
danced over
your brow
to conjure blood.

The mark
of a birth.
The you
inside the you.

Who wanted
to push through,
but could not.
But would not,

so pressed herself
against the glass
and looked out.  
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