Paper crowns that burn take their turns
folding thoughts to flame, holding close
hands whose kings wager prophets’ things
as if gambling futures secures
against calumny or stabbings
players who make of pain killings.
I remember well the killings—
two lovers playing cards, stabbings
trashing true romance (what secures
lasting fame), but these kids took turns
doing in those men, doing things
to them with knives that keep eyes closed.
A schematic of grief draws close
those of us who know what sick things
go on in the heart—what screw turns
when we fuck our Selves and killings
on the news make us less secure
than we have been amid stabbings.
Lines and arrows pierce where stabbings
and stitching un-stuff what secures
blankets and bares itching, killing
us to know just how very close
we each have come to what truth turns
these little fears into real things.
Grief counsels these unholy things—
by faith in recovery, turns
for the worse are knots undone close
enough to Easter as stabbings
sometimes are, tragedies & killings
calmed by what balm soft prayer secures.
What diamond rings souls secure
choke w/umbilical noose, killing
those hearts who choose, instead, stabbings
of that dart no one can loose—things
as obtuse as having to close
open wounds in a game whose turns
make for losers a path, stabbing
the map with an attack of things
that hold back this life’s players’ turns.