wrap the rope around the palm

and let them encircle the blood

that pumps beneath your finger

tips you place the rope and

feel as the edges slowly unravel

they peel off thread by thread like

layers of old skin shed and left

discarded you are stripped under

the scrutiny of the broken sun

and the weight of its glare burns a bloodbath

(you are entrapped in a battle lost)

you are left in a dream if you could call it that or maybe it is fragments of dream pieces badly glued together you are shriveled up a wilted plant drained dry left with nothing to do that can be done except to bake and break

maybe it does not matter maybes are like

quicksands you put one foot


and you are sucked in a quagmire of

doubts and more maybes that can only leave you

behind in time or stuck in a history of could

have beens but are nots and you are left maybeing

even as time goes

on the edge of a new millennium he she you me have

withered to nothing as nothing grows into nothingness

and i have been transplanted

curled up like an egg there is faint heartbeat

and blood flows enclosed

with time like an intake of air

a breath of a second birth

an explosion of broken thread