I drive my blade into the plumed vein of my left wrist:
through the edge of a balanced ache I emerge
prodding at the trail of blood,
painting with my index finger.
it is thin and bright, I watch the river circle, rise, the tide
sustained in an urgent flow.
through the fray images are clustered, reality wedged
between the tick the pain creates.
I won’t feel anything as clear as this red stream.

nothing ever ends, written,
experience lacks a point of conclusion.
poetry has become meaningless,
the feverish process orbits without assurance.
I am ready to commit to losing this long game,
the dizzying steps melting into a fresh oblivion

fast enough to have never been swallowed
by the chorded clouds, suicidal impulses precede
the day, hidden in an unseen act,
escaping consequence.
the eye is a disturbance that begins slanting
I can see myself walking across the charred
plank again
quickly into the inferno,
cheating death and towards life.


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