the rain falls on Ashfield Gardens
with faded dedication
as you creep to the shop for bread
without money for bread

and in your anxiety
you might hardly have noticed
the boy in the entry
briskly cutting
his
wrist
with the wild orange-paper blade
of a broken Fanta bottle

but you do
and you pause—

he will tell as he saws
as his hand beats to a blur—

that some boy cut himself
by accident
and wiped the
blood

on him
so he needs
blood

of his own
to wipe
on the other boy
to get
him

back