The iron in the blood,

an invisible knife

in the depths.

It won’t rust until death;

yet life has managed to dissolve it.

Unknown to the shirt’s pocket,

not hidden on the waist-belt

an artist’s care  without a cover

or the beast’s instinct,

as an inner strength

in the turns of the road,

in our rowdy times.

Still during the security checks

at the airports,

raising my hands in a gesture of surrender,

pretending to be tickled.

With the poets with

smuggler’s faces,

along with the cut-throat evenings.