Piteousness

The word flooded me,
Right above my breath,
Not once,
Twice.

The number of incisions made,
by the tip of your blade, scalpel,
Some stitched, some left open,
Despite,
has only deepened this receptacle.

Just like string work,
Of a fishing net,
Criss and crossed,
It is wired in this way.

Juts like the waves,
On a plain white day.
It is the crests and troughs,
That somehow holds the grip of the infelicitous carver.