Every sharpening restores a bright edge,
keener for the simple whittle,
honed for the splintered who need repair.

In the mirror of my pristine theater,
I polish patina of my face, redesign
with friction, whet fissures from my skin.

A brain is a many-chambered thing
and recalls each corruption.  I seek
a clean heaven, breathe healing air.

I resent ruinous slashes, even when
without injury to slow me, or dull rubs
cleaving my chest.  Your malicious

gashes carve me to third person, at bay
with rasping’s sparks.  Tuesday grinds
our love’s thousand tides, and you seduce

me into your cave by the sea.  I witness
you smear frescoes onto walls,
and accept a frieze onto my flesh.

– Sam Barbee