Trump

It's true.

You never plan to cut your thumb.
The knife slips leaning hard
and there with the dripping lump numb
you hold onto the last minutes' mood.

But no pressing can save you.
The snow combs over the blood
like a trump played on a better card
and the table flipped over rude.

You never plan to be silent. Dumb
luck and walls echo we won we won.
And meanwhile the pain has welled,
the shock starts to slack,

and you'll never go back
to when the thin skin held.