compare the violet flowers in roadside ditches

to the marks and stitches on your backs

pushed up and through

reminders to and of you

come back to the descending stairwell

the light at its end must be too dim

climb further into the maze

razor-straight at forty-five degrees

where logics die

acquaint with the dark

the night

the bottom that isn't

where time flies into walls

aiming a crooked beak at tomorrow

Midnight silhouetted in working hands