oh, poem me baby...
Knife
Holding a knife, or imagining it holds a knife, my blood goes to sleep in my fist. If I stare into it long enough, inevitably the moment when I no longer recognize it arrives. This is the moment when the blood unknowingly offers itself to be slaughtered; when cuts can occur like a slip of the tongue; when a little blood could billow in a glass of water and impart to it the disappearing taste of my own life.
- Franz Wright
Holding a knife, or imagining it holds a knife, my blood goes to sleep in my fist. If I stare into it long enough, inevitably the moment when I no longer recognize it arrives. This is the moment when the blood unknowingly offers itself to be slaughtered; when cuts can occur like a slip of the tongue; when a little blood could billow in a glass of water and impart to it the disappearing taste of my own life.
- Franz Wright
