TURNING TO ROPES
for Ian Curtis

Turning to ropes

  his body didn’t sway

  the chair didn’t look up

  the room only cleared its throat with a creak

Turning to ropes

  his skin bloomed an emerald heirloom soft

A fashionable scarf of a scar would form

  the trendsetting of his throat

  the royal colors of Saturn’s rings

A rusty halo that lost its grip and fell

  from the height of his skull

  ten stories of vertebrae to its death

  at the nape of his neck

A bloody horseshoe

  clanging around a tired voice

Footprints of a thousand blue jays

  running finish lines across his Adam’s apple

The shape of a noose

  is the shadow of a single petal

  is a balloon crashing back to Earth

  is a boxer’s glove defeated

  is the staccato of a tongue

  is a champion’s racket

  is a dangling spoon with a reflection

  is one flame curling into itself before going out

Nothing would’ve made you happier

  than the thought of me finding

  nothing sadder than the thought of

  your guitar without you