Between my finger and my thumb,

the hammer and barrel,

I paint the scene

with Tuscan sun thick

waterfall wounds.

Forging a cave deep enough

to bury the clock-stopper,

just left of my pulse.

The full metal jacket

dulled of its sheen

keeps me cold tonight.

Stippled skin encircling,

traces of a shallow shell,

wilted petals of this

fallen black rose.

Squeeze tight,

royal red rush released.

Thick skin metaphor,

but a lucid layer

lost against

gritty memoir panels.