(Penned yesterday)

Half-baked
I bake my blood
each time the roses flare,
entrusting to the flame
my hot red pulse,
crusting the sharp lines
of too tangible a world,
those too fine edges
that slice fingers,
and cut eyes.
Paint away the present.
Drown the lungs of now
In blood soup,
Word sausage.
Time is a virus.
Art inoculates.