I can’t form a line.
I can’t stretch my tongue.
The morning is wide
and I’m wet for the sun.
I woke with her soul.
I slept with her flesh.
I dance with her dice,
which she refuses to drop.

I can’t form a line.
I can’t summon my strength.
The birds outside twirl in
erotic circles,
while I slouch inside—
afraid to look out from
behind bending blinds.

My blood is a knife.
My blood is a train.
My blood blows black smoke
inside of my brain.
In the middle of the night,
my animals holler.
My legs numb like snow,
falling boundless forever.

I can’t form a line.
I can’t write the wrongs.
I can’t sell my cinnamon
without cursing all the ground
she’s ever walked upon.

There is work to be done.
There are demands at my door.
So another day passes.
Another purpose is left raw;
Peeling in the moonlight.
Itching in the spit.
Scratched when I am ready
to set fire
with the candle I’ve kept
burning at the top of my tower,
where I remain captive forever.

I can’t form a line
but I can straighten an arc.

written on 09/26/2011 by: Matt Kane