the ropes of poetry
lock around a throat,
rise gives like skin sweat
come to surface
in the grip of the contest.
Verbs crest like veins
come to surface
in the grip of the conquest
slipped away in the
cross travel of the
finger thick braids of twine.
In those spaces thinning,
light at doors sleeping
while you wake and awake
while you try to sleep,
there is the crusth,
taking you apart piece by piece
with little joy
and toward a meticulous
composition of something
a little more becoming a
starting end point.
