Who’s to say how far you’d go
when the screw at the unnamed
part of your neck is turned
and your friends faces drip away?
Who knows what bile would
seep into the whites of your eyes
and how reason would no longer
be something you could hurdle?
You pick a spot.
You let go of the scorpions.
You try to disentangle
the markers that give false hope.
It might seem as though you’re groveling
when your cheek is so low to the ground
you can see the cracks under a door
but what can you do?
Take a sickle to the flag.
Supplant. Supplant. Supplant.
And be wary of the pin-hole
at the back of the room.
