Those scars, my scourge, have scabbed from jam to whey,
Their flint infection settled, but obscure,
So set for moulding, they could yet seem pure
Enough to point the proper, straightened way.
For all I ever planned, still yet they may:
A gap's slid out for a tongue to abjure,
The quarry should have learnt to hop the lure,
A witness of the portioning of past prey.
But weals fasten something as they sink,
Slivers and thorny specks iterate flesh,
And thought looks to the rigour of the sense.
What use then to so much as think to think,
When such a hurt is only cheap as fresh,
And the least quenching salve's the mere defence?
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