Essay on Craft

Because the butterfly’s yellow wing

flickering in black mud

was a word

stranded by its language.

Because no one else

was coming — & I ran

out of reasons.

So I gathered fistfuls

of ash, dark as ink,

hammered them

into marrow, into

a skull thick

enough to keep

the gentle curse

of dreams. Yes, I aimed

for mercy — 

but came only close

as building a cage

around the heart. Shutters

o