LET THIS BE A FIST

Into which you twine

And find leaden in your palm

These tightly woven miles

Of silver thread

Strike your shackles, man

Let them fly

There, against silver proof

Arch arch arch

To the ceiling

Imagine a disc

Of hot silver

You arrive at

Body lightness

Your metric heart

Is now sleeping

From eye to eye

And foot to shoved hand

Are you inventing a dream

To escape from?

You coward.

Dredge the weft

Trust it raw,

Give it no rest

And what to build next?

Our hearts?

And what then?