parts of me wound up real nice n tight, like
knots on the corners, some made-out mend;
you'd said
just enough to infer what had really happened,
as the days tousled past
in a blue haze.
and i wonder what had gone wrong, as
all of the possibilities writhe, in my own hands
(finer slice, never seen),
and drive me sick beyond any mineshaft
running down on through circles
of hell in my stomach:
little hot red streaks of
dulled-away panic, drizzling across my chest.
little sad indents, calloused bent-away
everyday musings: songs i won't
ever let ring.
couldn't hold it against you, though,
or hold anything at all. this isn't my game. not now.
terminally unsure, move or play to unmake.
or just wake up, another morning, dreamless and dry.
you were a shimmering blinding point in the
schemes of a brass-gleaming, **** ugly world. could
have sworn salvation was strikes of seconds on your
wrist-watch. could've felt beautiful under your gaze,
'nother moment. but beautiful me, in a clause you
spelled out
with eye-beats and the gnashing of calm,
was just rearrangement of belief. the world's so pretty, yeah,
you wouldn't believe. well, i couldn't see.
and finally i, truly, am shown **** ugly
me: the burning safety blanket,
the unwinding net, the snowblinding fisherman,
out on the lake.
sometimes just feel real alone.
