small loop

You read it and you think

maybe I read it wrong

so you find the line

going back a few,

maybe the poem misspoke,

maybe it took a tone

feeling the weakness bearing 

all the weight, whatever 

the wind or the way.

Maybe at last

you’ve been found out—

just a little meat

a puddle of blood 

a few greasy bones.

Another set of botched confessions,

dull stratagems pushing shadows 

all around, a small loop

shoving your greatest hits

up to the surface and 

down to your depths.

This suggestion, this assertion,

this cutthroat cull spilling 

blood to rust setting up

a say so. The words

caught you in a corner,

a heart all a pitter patter,

a breath that knows it’s spent.