Every man’s God wraps purple-gray gauze
around the ever-wounded world and whispers,
“heal now during these tranquil hours, then
unravel your blossomed-red bandage from
smooth, scarred skin.”

Neighbors and strangers trace our flaws
with their fingers, tattoo facsimiles
on prior-scarred limbs to offer
some worthless, priceless solace
where lines intersect.

Morning refuses to acknowledge
distant stares and gouged flesh,
empathy and sacrifice, merely
awakens us to the futility and necessity
of this struggle, tactlessly suggests

we are too little to be so different
from each other.