Of Salvia

I happened to find a poem today

by a poet whose name arose,

like a flower pressed, red,
between the pages

of a book read

long ago.

(At the approach of winter,

we talked

nearing the end.)

As he spoke of the salvia,

My mind rushed for that stark red;

through clogged pipes and sewers

My hands expanded

turned and twisted

removing hair, semen,

faces, fear and desire.

There in the winding depths

it stood, aflame, bleeding,

a precise wound

cut open with love

and thus untreated.