We Will All Fall Down

When hands grow

from your face, love rains


like flesh ripped, sinew through skin

scaling layers of muscle fiber, nerve


from bone with a corrupted force.  Fingers

rub so eye lids flay from friction.  The only way


to conceal what the world is doing is worse

than being barefoot, walking blindfolded


through the beach of dirty hypodermic needles

littering the shoreline around Misery Bay.  Blind


is so much worse than red rawness.  Imagine

only blackness while something scurrying


over your feet lets its weight swipe on your shin. Pray

you at least know which gutter you are heading for.


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