The Blood Comes

He is a target –
scarlet-faced,
shirt-drenched,
stippled neck
rising from
white-collared trench,
hot-tipped ears
conspicuous as a hare’s.
He is skewered
by their stares
and cowers
when their jibes
javelin through the air;
he swivels on his chair,
wounded.

An army of platelets
surges,
rampaging
with fervent urgency
through feathered tendrils
to fix the damage.

They race,
run reckless laps
in furious loops,
trailing puce,
ensnaring him
in crimson coils,

The Blood Comes

spinning him
in scarlet skeins
pinking skin,
whirl ruddy eddies
in his face –
he is in the marketplace,
braced in the stocks
where rotten tomatoes
are launched like rocks.

He hears
the rushing of water
as they swirl
in the empty river beds of his ears
and circle his neck
in whirlpools.

He is drowning.
He is bleeding
inward tears.