the best part of a bruise is not the pain
	      not the tenderness                  of skin
			                      not the touch
       of fingers curious about its

			                limits
                  not the hue             not the blood
that pools like vulnerable tidewater	     gallops lazy
	      toward the heart        not the heart 

                                       not the bruise itself 
	           but the bruising thing	     its force
how it knows no boundary 
             no method       no enlightenment

     no hollow notches just above 
the collarbones	   no space between 
		         the body 
				                    and its name