O-
it aches
like a scaled summer day
drying out the sweet sheen of iris gay.
It sweeps the eyes to beads,
some blank and quashing whitened weave.
It is a heat oppressed head
tending to a dagger
half in appeal
and in relief.
I could kill something;
No,
I do not know what-
but I turn most eagerly
in a mavric glare
to the vile sponge beneath my hair.
O-
I could churn out a hole
and leak my untruths
as a gushing river of tar-like soul
to clear the smudge upon my brow.
Yet if I did scrape away such defect
I dread little would be left.
