I Can’t Be Bled

I love the vibrations of my skin

in the cold grocery store aisle.

Life is good.  Even crying I love.

Ear massage by each drop

swinging down to my jawbone

to trace their tracks so slow.

I’m more confident now coming through the clouds.

Though no hay for my bed

I can’t be bled.

Blood is for family and for spirit brethren.

I split bread with those closest

and make eye contact with those passing.

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