Say trust is our only driver: it can’t get worse
than his deliberate prescriptions, his wrecking
ball that comes and steals away our homes,
our food. Who’ll be smashed in the gutter
under the severest waters; who’ll be shot

back up (meaning improved)? No detective
could sort good men from wasps, puzzle out
if someone’s looking to sting or heal. When
wounds start festering on our ankles, he’s
not impressed: martyrdom suits us, he jokes,

claiming our immunity to pain. Still, given
only invisible scars, we’re certain not to gain
much: better a series of bright cuts, chamber
of blooms to steer us towards necessary healing,
cause our suffering to be scarce and obvious.