The wound.
The wound gaped open, it was remarkably
like the wedge of an orange when it is split spurting.
He wanted to close the wound with a kiss
to graft his mouth to the warm wet tissue.
He kept about the wound waiting and deeply
disturbed his fascination, like the inside of the wound itself.
Deep as deep almost as the life principle.
The irresistible force of being.
The force lay there in the rupture of the flesh
there at the center of the wound.
Had he been God?
He should himself have inflicted the wound.
And he should have taken the wound gently,
gently in his hands and placed it
among the most brilliant wild flowers in the meadows
of the mountains.