She wrote it with her breath.

Foggy, misty words

scrawled inside the filament of her mind—

in thin, stale cellophane.

Her eyes wandered, opaque—

diffused in the hole her brain remembered

or forgotten in murky trenches.

Disfigured, the wind avoids the contour

of her face. Defying the dread of having clambered

among fists, strangers marked for ownership.

If only the shepherd’s Words is as audible as the screaming

voices: scales from the heart’s eyes would fall

unperturbed— in silence.