What you don’t know is that I,
having nothing left to lose,
set down root and burgundy thorn
just here, alongside silent stone
beside your door, your intimidating door
looming broad, carved strokes of wood
dressed all brass-knockers and shiny knobs;
I set down root and burgundy thorn
and cast my limbs surreptitiously wide
so I might snatch you as you saunter by
tangle and trip you so you bloody your chin,
split and scar your surly chin
across the rough-hewed path.
May 22, 2009
Feeling just a little bit prickly today?