Scraped Shin

This is nothing. The jabbing of a
shin against the bench side, metal
crunching skin. Grenade of flesh
exploded; or was it a bubble, twilight's
headphone-dreams burst in gasps of sharp epiphany?

Long ago, the pain was needle threading
my torn scalp, doctor's skillful larcerations
closing
with
stings
the
head
split
open
in a
nasty
fall
at
childhood.

Memory served an itch, then went back
to being buried. Scraped shins no more
hurting than the scalpel of words in a breakup.
(I remember a pact of arms to be entwined
till dust, or else severed like hamstring)

The evenings
elope, that braised shin
hums a little in
numbed tongues, then
leaves a fresh
draft of skin, raw
as a baby's.