There is a man in the suburbs
Whose heart keeps leaking.
up into the cotton
of all his best shirts.
International doctors and scientists
they concede to take him to the Undertakers
Tonight, while he sleeps
Mummified tightly in gauze,
his wife grips
his hand, and whispers a confession.
I have begun to regret your injuries less.
Squeezing the hand harder,
she smiles softly at the crimson
spreading across the surface,
one fibre at a time.