A Port Wine Stainspreads over your eye: a face in the window of an attic. Everything here is its deepest red. I saw a man who fainted, and the heat lay over him like a body too heavy on a woman in bed. You steep to brown in the sun, except there, where some wild thing danced over your brow to conjure blood. The mark of a birth. The you inside the you. Who wanted to push through, but could not. But would not, so pressed herself against the glass and looked out.  |
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