A new knife
needs a better edge
than the one it’s sold with,
said the guy behind the counter
who echoes my father’s words
and everything else my scars
have led me to believe.

It’s a beauty, this piece,
with an assisted opening feature:
a little pressure on the thumbstud
and the black blade snaps into place
quick as my intent.

But it’s not ready, so

I pull
the diamond stone
from the drawer
and begin to stroke
the blade against it
testing it on my skin
until it lifts the hair
and leaves a bare patch behind.
It could open skin now,

so I put it aside
and think about
how I’ll put it
into my pocket
the next time I go out among

my friends and fellow townspeople,
my dearest connections,
my family.

All around me the shiny cars,
the perfect finishes,
the factory edges,
the belief in happy endings,
the misplaced hope for things to work
the way they’re supposed to
right out of the box.

I know better.

frog.
status.
lingua franca.
redoubt.

build the bridge between them
or leap across?

flora.
wrench.
mixed results.

thick answers form
around the library tables.

sunspot.
ignored signs.
curbstone.
face.
jawbreaker.

witness the decided
and determined attempt
to capture the flag
and own a meaning
never intended.  no design
worth mention except as it is
created; literature as a roll of dice —

vinyl.
commitment.
trash box.
sticky bones.

on the way home, realization:

burning.
burning.

repetition is as random as it gets
anywhere.  no reason for discrete
sounds, as any will do:

finale and symphony,
sycophant, blind-eyed,
lugging, baggage,
passage and lockdown,
screwheart, fingerling.

we sleep on the wet,
pretending memory
of a dry crossing.