BOREDOM

Even my thoughts bore me, like an unread
poem in the manuscript or an overwashed
face towel by the the sink,
waiting to fall

any time.

Blood may amuse me. Bleeding opens my
eyes and stains everything I see with a colour that
doesn’t exist – everyone is colour blind,

except the blind.

I do nothing to stop the blood, but watching the
stream soak wet my sideburns, like
a drop of ink diffusing in the water, or
a brush on a Chinese painting, which makes you
miss the empty space more than the painted scenery.

Or I will put my hands on both sides of the wound,
making it wider,
tearing off the tissues

as if
dividing a loaf of bread for the hungry.
Pain, I do feel, but it’s nothing like the

penetrative boredom

I hear every minute. My ears are
the most soliciting organs –
they welcome every sound and
offer no doors to the noise.

That’s why I’m bleeding, unable to tell if
the red comes from my ears or my hands.