It's not the pain that blooms until it flows
down my shirt. It's a hole filling with blood
faster than the one strike for 1 o'clock.
Slow was when I dug my feet in the sand
and watched the sun set. Slow was days after
a winter storm drinking hot tea for warmth.
Slow was a flat tire before a concert.
I'll lay down slowly and stretch my legs out.
I'll remember the slow movements of wet
worms that would be home in this foxhole.
I'll count to 10 repeat, and then inhale.
Shock is quick. I rip my shirt to shield blood
from dust, cup my hand and push the blood back.
If I hold my breath the bleeding will stop.
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