You read it and you think
maybe I read it wrong
so you find the line
going back a few,
maybe the poem misspoke,
maybe it took a tone
feeling the weakness bearing
all the weight, whatever
the wind or the way.
Maybe at last
you’ve been found out—
just a little meat
a puddle of blood
a few greasy bones.
Another set of botched confessions,
dull stratagems pushing shadows
all around, a small loop
shoving your greatest hits
up to the surface and
down to your depths.
This suggestion, this assertion,
this cutthroat cull spilling
blood to rust setting up
a say so. The words
caught you in a corner,
a heart all a pitter patter,
a breath that knows it’s spent.
