Fireweed
for David Craig 

Shaving with virgin steel in the pulse 
tension of hand, the misted condensation 
of age. The blade cries like a sharp tongue 
licking red release.

The residue of my past lies at the bottom 
of the sink, I pull the plug and it falls away 
into the mensural sewers of loss.

I wipe away the mist from my reflected self, 
bloody war, winter landscape. Recycled pulp 
on my face hardening like a second skin.

I must shed and reappear wounded.