Fields of dead wood lie like
bleeding temples in the maze.
We talk of many nothings.
The sound of your voice is glass,
shrill and brittle.
Accusations and false charges.
Impossibilities.
At my request
you flower the sidewalk
with my fingernails.
I've ripped them
out
for you.
Supplied the pain
to prove my surrender.
Talking, you plan
my future
and
disregard my wishes.
The sound of bells
that are ringing like
insane lizards
impaled on sticks.
As they die,
I bleed with them.
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