Of The Wound کے بول

he cross pulled from his chest Raises a welt, leaden in every limb Sleep can watch for seizures The legless man had directed him to a window Window like blind eyes probed the mud The minutes that were left Ran across his throat stuffed with cotton And his mouth could hear the distant splashes A fever and his hand is worse In the silent film days He must remain an enigma They climbed three flights of stairs to the night Like a hundred pieces of glass There were numerous outstretched hands throwing shadows, A pair of shadows Holding the three cornered hat of a cardinal We move on to snake venoms Christ would spit on you And that's who you remind me of Beneath a musty green The wound appears to be dying