is it grief
that folds you over at the waist
and crumples you to the ice
this impulse to bend,
to give way to something
wracking your bones with shock

an evening unraveled long and flat,
a length of barbed wire a grassy plain a broken fence
monsters rattling dirt and stones a scuffed heel
kicked heel broken nose
a fist of blood a sorry, sorry and weeping
silent

it's silent here
convinced monsters aren't real
if only if only
if only they weren't stomping the floor
or remembering the path from your throat to your feet
your throat to your feet

everything in you is pricked
and falling