You simmer on the edge
of reason
A string to lift
your neck into a living position
A hook hook hook
to crush your back
into a spine
A rope brushes pincers
into your wrists
A clean rope
Your clean wrists

Sometimes I write stuff that seems violent without my meaning it to....

He's a keeper

He's a keeper.
But then again,
he is not.
He is not
stretched out on a wooden boat,
looking down between the slats
thinking,
"boy, I wish I could touch
those stars,"
as he brushes his fingers
across the diamonds in the water.