[a poem I wrote today]

Scarring

cutting lines over and over
thinly etched, deeply sliced
almost anorexic without fault

just marking rows from strife
made in order, to divide
like fences between neighbours

(for proper separation)

or wrinkles in perfection
measured and ruled across time
until the skin is breached

cracked instead of healed
so it appears at first
drawing life to the surface

frozen after into clots
with only arctic winds of change
and discontented winter.