The hammer of will
and intention
is cocked like a thrill

in suspension.
I write down the page
and the tension

descends to the stage
like a petal.
There's no better gauge

of my mettle
than dust on the sill.
Let it settle

and drift. Let it spill.
Let it kill.

A vicious pacifist
would only kill
himself. The plot would twist

and churn until
the blind admired eyes
are shut—as still

and silent as the flies
we stalk and swat.
Under the turning skies

in a dull blot
of memory, a cyst
of water, clot

of air, the loved one kissed
on the clenched fist.