all hard-*****, ******* knuckles,
all smooth, sweetened bones pressing

up against your skin, white and tight,
each wrapped with the purple sinews
that grip into your tendons, strangling

every flawed and mortal movement
caught with your inhale, is drowned
on a hook, by the scruff of their neck

the high wire between the top of your spine
and the hard bottoms of your feet, is pulled,
an arched bow, strung with gut and tension

Chaos is held and stopped with a finger,
it look at you, holding. You look at me.

Uncorked, a finger caught, then, releases,
tightly bound, with an extraordinary "Pop!"