the articulated sounds I have made
to throw a blind dart at the target of
what happens keep falling short
and arcing away, my murder mirrors
and throat fires and gut strings
beat tiny fists against padded
walls crying to be heard,
beyond rescue.
.
there are things to say about time
and distance and irony that are being said
better than I will say them, I am tired
from pulling against formless
draw-and-quarter horses spurred
by cynics hungry for something honest
to be destroyed for the sake of
being honest.
.
the last thing I have left is
speechlessness when
an involuntary agh sighs
through a collapsing chest
and speaks volumes, hold
me.