Slow air ponders the precipice.
My hands reduced to slop
in the sluice and the power drills
of earnestness. A fatality
of monuments. A slump gathering
critiques of Victorian morals.
I can still understand
the laughter if not the syllables.
There’s a bandage holding
my joints in place – it serves
the function of mediator
in this war of the senses.
Five sides, pentagons every last
one of them. You know what we do
to geometric figures
in these here parts.
Don’t count your cowardice