January 30, 2008 - 10:14 p.m.
There is always a metaphor of containment
where words have four corners
breaking from old cyles, and round metaphors,
how do I feel myself up against a point?
It hits weak flesh, the incision between teeth, canine,
the soft space
between ribs, bird-heart heaving in anticipation of flight and wary
watching the air for signs
heavy, hostile, sleek
any number of animals -
all stalking the bars
reaching between self-imposed restraints
restraint
it is a line
i smirk about its presumed straightness
the line, they call it chalk, they call it habit,
a tiny grain of sand can cause any number of infections,
we know how we are expected to behave
the play is well-made
i wait for the reversal
I have come to anticipate the fall
and it may be
that I am writing this
hoping for real drama
when all that is here
are words in measured boxes
a rubric of formality
i want to be harder
less predictable
to myself
i am looking
for the grain of sand
