Knives like gaunt hawks can
swoop through and gut you at
any moment, unexpectedly,
the sunlight carrying
surprise torture.

maybe i’m just sorry,
see maybe i’m not even hanging by a thread
but i am the thread
and it dances in the wind and
frays like a mad man.

i can twist but i can’t shake it
and all these tiny steps
left behind some moustachioed rake
wept over oak senseless condensation
that you were many mistakes.

boy is it hot outside today.