- Vol. 05
- Chapter 10
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 Comesspinning 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.