Words this evening are weapons.
We use them with easy precision
in shaft and counter-shaft,
our mutilations
Spielberg-swift, casual,
even artistic.
We who know
that the perfect line
that blinks up,
kitten-eyed, from the page,
is birthed
in the shiver of intestine
and visions malarial,
in the hiss
of detonating dream,
in the terrifying surrender
to absence.
We who know
that artisans must build
only to blast
vast ziggurats of thought
into silence.
We who know.
We who forget.