Camouflage

THE ether cone, the knife and skill
Level the cicatrice
Of some old wound, but still
The unseen hurt at hint of stormy weather
Nags at the scar smoothed for a lover’s kiss —
Pain and memory conspire together.

Deep folds of an inward scar
Cut by some poisoned word or deed
Are safe from art or knife, too far
For blade to level or to bleed
To smoothness, yet too near the rain,
The earth or moon, the sun or star
To know a holiday from pain.