/merrillcole/

 

the blind spot

the secret of that con

centration grinding

until the scratches

or paint

strokes or pinpricks o

pen a space (it hurts)

 

won’t be words

won’t be clouds

 

he can’t contain his

face his

fingers poking

out of his mouth

of his eyes (please

don’t) his vagina

 

won’t take body

won’t hold soul

 

flesh-colored fingers  

hang down he’d say

seeing is not the

same as (fuck you)

touching

 

won’t cream

won’t bleed

 

blazes out of

art out of reach

of red (I can’t fucking

see) neon

flashing Johnny and

Johnny again

 

“Johnny in Lights.” Spoon River Poetry Review 42.1 (Summer 2017): 36-37.