The knives ziggurat ballistic clouds,
our sense of self crosshatched by them—
knives puncture that which holds the note
to the highest bidder, caught aslant that other kind
of moon settled behind our backs, I told you
the night was dark, broadcasted in brine these hands
clasped
—that which won’t [contain me] barely
beneath the table, a billiard two eyes
unfolding, believe me, it was the knives—,
rapacious like the river we visit, ruminant;
roaming the past these precambrian coups d'etats
yet you won’t listen because the road
was long and stark, 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 cross
by daylight returned by night, the clink
of billiards these hands
which hang;
because the road was long and dark, it was the knives.