Manacled
To self-talk’s ongoing monolog
one hand tries to undo the lock.
The other stays stuck
with winter and frost-tipped grass.
This could be your script,
a cold you read and re-read
imprisoned in the subconscious,
unable to feel water or air.
Helicopters circle accidents on freeways.
Keys fall into plaster leaves
and what you want to exorcise
becomes night and nerves
as tightly packed as sausages,
bits of fat congealed, phallic,
your hidden guard no closer
than before, just those
two hands bloody with trying.