The cross pulled from his chest   Raises a welt, leaden in every limb      Sleep can watch for seizures      The legless man had directed him to a window   Window like blind eyes probed the mud   The minutes that were left   Ran across his throat stuffed with cotton   And his mouth could hear the distant splashes      A fever and his hand is worse   In the silent film days      He must remain an enigma      They climbed three flights of stairs to the night   Like a hundred pieces of glass   There were numerous outstretched hands throwing shadows,   A pair of shadows   Holding the three cornered hat of a cardinal      We move on to snake venoms      Christ would spit on you   And that's who you remind me of   Beneath a musty green   The wound appears to be dying