Hands around the bars
White knuckles that were, that
Have been bruised
The same knuckles I remember, and
I remember my knuckles unleashed
On the second floor
Of the sideways house
Where lips were bursting cherries.
Time slides through key holes over cliffs
An avalanche will eat the photo albums
Your memory will obsess with broken toys, and
Your eyes are still the same
Apple barrels of anger and
A vortex that regrets
What color are your knuckles gripping a pen
That sends your words from incarceration
In Texas?
Your knuckles
Always rapping imaginary doors
Your eyes look for treasures
You already own
Quit tearing the precious apart
Searching to find
What you already own.
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