Break my fingers, force me to let go,
I don’t think I’ll do it if I’m left on my own.
It’s not that I’m lacking in strength,
just lacking the will.

Fighting these phantoms mine eyes have not met,
can’t keep pricking the fingers that have already bled.
Sew up the scratches, leave the gaping wounds
open to kill.

Cut off the lifelines, tie up the ends,
if I can’t climb to safety I’ll have to descend.
If I can’t find the switch, I’ll just say that
the bulb has burned out.

Build up the wall between battle and flight;
decisions are simpler when it’s all black and white.
Monochromatic mosaic in the
absence of doubt.

Photograph negatives of butterfly wings,
white ink on white paper, butterflies sing.
My fingers are broken, but I’m
digging at butterfly graves.

All that was fragile is buried in stone,
beauty as brittle as butterfly bones;
my fingers are broken but I’m
digging at butterfly graves.