Back to my growlery
white porcelain tomb
last night hammers on me
pecking my lune

Inundated
I am cestus- hewn
illustrated
by full moon

Welting my hands
against wall
the palisade
is built tall

Forced gorged feelings
torch where they hide
weighted tactics
lying beside this great divide

Shiver to a nosedive
I traverse the night
holding dearer
contrite and struggle to overwrite
broken glass, a mirror,
eyes say- though now mute-
with each heave, “et tu brute?”