The knives ziggurat ballistic clouds in the sky,
our sense of self crosshatched by them—
knives puncturing that which holds the note
to the highest bidder, caught that other kind of moon
behind our backs, I told you the night was dark,
yet broadcasted in brine and these hands clasped
—that which won’t [contain me] brushed barely
& beneath the table, a billiard eyes
unfolding, believe me, it was the knives—,
rapacious like the Iowa river, ruminant;
roaming the past like precambrian coups d'etats
and you won’t even listen because the road
is long and dark, we go back in time
to times when you did all the talking and, I
know, it was the knives, curved / concave
bent over blunt, misremembered
it was, you’ll say, the times, the city a moat I crossed
by daylight and returned by night,
billiards keesp clashing,
and these hands hang
other kinds of moon, blue negligee >
because the road was long and dark, it was the knives.