It’s been three days of a slow dull heat

It’s been three days of a slow, dull heat.

The cedar bit me near the street

when the mailman waved and I lost my grip.

Now there’s a red mountain on the tip

of my index finger, angry and wide.

I hold the needle in the Bic’s blue flame

until the steel forgets its name.

I have to go in deep to find the wood,

to pull out the part that never was good,

poking at the skin until it starts to slide.