Day Four
Not so much art as it is
a frenzied blow, struck, it is
paper, cut. Of course, it's
a pretty laceration.
No calligraphy
carves a line like a scalpel.
The way it splits the skin, it's
Delicious. It is final.
There is a boy, looking
at a girl; she is looking
lonely, through a window.
Her face is turned away.
A samurai;
Examining the viscera,
Dispassionate, faced
with anything arterial.
How this severed artistry
is kept, concealed and freshly scarred,
In a forgotten place,
Unforgotten.
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