Daniel Dixon Poet Prose Poetry

Untitled 29

The prick of fire on an otherwise
pleasant spring day melts fields of pink,
green and purple to a blazing red. Ache,
the ache, the undeniable torture builds
to a climax. Coal on snow, 
the walking dot penetrates my white house. An ant!
An ant! That snacks on my green foot.
it leaves unmolested but before always.
That unseen spot that thrusts itself on stage,
that causes the knife to the ankle,
that pierces the heart. The perforated skin grows.
It swells with each throb, a bloated leech.
An O, the ring of blood a branding. With maturity,
the lesion opens itself, an angry blossoming.
Even the little wounds are painful and
the red mountain hisses on as painful as breath.

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