Postcard Poetry: Day 8

Translation:

_____

I crossed paths with

a jagged glass vase, blood

seeped through to my skin's 

surface, instinctually the 

bleeding thumb went to 

my mouth. I calm myself

by licking my own
wounds. A cat -- I purr
to my red, dripping thumb.
Hours later, a tiny red x
marks the spot of the jag-
ged glass. My skin, a treasure
map, my body, the earth. /
_____

And now, after dropping the postcard in the mail, I say, oh, "instintually" is not a word; I meant "instinctively". Oh well. I really did work 8 hours of manual labor today, cutting myself deeply once and not so deeply several other times. Luckily I'm too tired to badger myself about my mistake. Sorry, recipient, for the bad grammar! :)

jb