pluck
raze the skin of some wounded
wooden wand has embedded
itself in the rained-on
roof of my right wrist,
and this is what
you give me:

a tool to trim
my talons with,
nail file extended
like a breathless blade
poised to prick holes
in the lid of this life.

i move the metal mouth
to where the insult was
made and pry loose what
wasn't mine to begin with.
250706
what's it to you?
who go
blather
from