The Graze.

Well, why not? Miriam R. in my Sister Morphine confesses (page 116) she's something of a poetaster, but should that admission prevent sight of her scribblings?

 

The graze.

 

Children weep for their future lives.
                In the cinder grit beneath the skin,
                                    in the nettle's spite and wasp's sting,
           apprehend a lover’s griefs,
                       and husband spurned.
       And the infant, sobbing,
                       fallen from her swing,
                          chants 
                        a lament for wives
                                abandoned.