The Cold Stabber
The gagged knife of autumn wind
cuts and tears at my hands
until the fire
gushes through shaking palms
and sets my hands ablaze.

I stuff my hands in my pocket,
dousing the pulsating burn
with cotton.
With one target gone,
the knife swings at my face.

The blade that slashes
but leaves no wounds
turns my cheeks red
with blood.
I grimace, and close my eyes
for a moment.
The wind dies down
and I finish my walk
on this clear, October day.

Well, what doth people tink of dis?