and glass bullets shot from the stitch. Ink ground
of bed stains, underwater gunk and grime,
words scrawled and spread like poison ivy rash.
Paper shuts up like a claw trap. Direct
hit of the line break. No smiles to sketch now.
No breaths at all in this book. Tore 'em out,
tiny strips culled from old days, reused, love
notes on the back of death notes. Littered,
the journal, surgeried for its organs
like one kidnapped and cut up, sent in bits
through the mail. The cadaver was scrapbooked.
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