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