"In a room where the truth naked, shining"

                                The body wishing to break
   but cannot    still in fragile pace
            stringing  defeat   so sure in the air

     and rising from salvaged metal
   compressing everything to scrap;

         Every single one mum as water in basin --

   I am    akin  to  all  their   silences.
         What language could run its smoothness
     if not the same voice relishing in the beginning,
        drawing this reticence much more immense,
    commensurate if not death in the afternoon?

           From this room there is the disquiet
    taking form, the symmetry of a knife,
           crushed deep within my plight
            of wanton need. The night's meaning reduced
   to a stockpile of laundry soiled from yesterday's
           scuffle, the same metronomic sound of
  
       the world dropping from a high place,
   my hands dreading the catch from the fall.