Povidone-iodine on some kind of gauze.

There was a period in my life where I wrote a lot of red
poems; pasted them all up on a wall;
I relished in this, iodine washing;
after living with the orange stains and the too-clean rubbed-raw
 insides;     I had to. I learned nothing

from it. When it came time for winter all the earth went to sleep,
moved in silence; I screamed against that
white backdrop; I tried to expel the inside of myself;   it was
 violent and harrow, red;
maybe I have interest in rehashing all that, but usually I don’t;

the river is slow moving. My aches are glacial.
There is a big bright orange ball of colicism that is threatening out
like in that movie, Alien;   it’s not my fault;
 it’s full of something and it’s not my fault;