The hooting of the barges dimmed. Something so bizarre should work. The metal taste cupped against his palate. Already he was seeing the machine to stamp depressions into zipper teeth, and the end of 20 years of trying. The coffee was bad but tasted good, and he heard the barges on the river.
Leaves dirt there to suffocate Bruised knuckles, tired wrists.
He knows this before the prey Feels the spinning metal arrowhead Or tastes its own blood About to light its tongue. And times the beating, pumping, stopping And starting again of his heart. In a woman's frayed hands, As they work the sweeping sound Of the basket being made While her eyes ignore moving things Circling around her. And knows that one wrong twist Will make them all unravel. And it stays in the impressions Made red in his palm as he squeezes the bone's teeth into his dry skin.