Feste's Lute

Lepers fall prey
and ample ankles
shatter,
but some reeds
never bruise.

They grow to wave
their shoots
beneath
the crescent.
Crying out
their passions,
brushing past
all agony,
they shake.

Forsaken stalks
live lifetimes
while we wake.

We’re past appeal.
They hazard us questions
straight,
punctuated
by padded rooms,
insular jackets
warding away warmth
with sweet stasis.
Analysis is swift, and
gratefully with grit
we scrawl pages
on cotton.
We bleed in
the wash.