stiletto crow - poetry show

Kirk Pram


12 long years have not broken him.
Exiled in a battle poem, wiping mud and blood from his knees,
he creeps like a puddle of cream,
advances on your magnetic north.

Every word he utters makes a dog bark
and the images trickle out of his head.

His eyes are half-shut as he paints his name in palest blue
on the door of the guilt enclosure.

Floating on a river of lava he doesn’t singe, just sweats
till at an opportune moment
he swerves to avoid the dark side, falls
into a warm salty bath
and gently washes off his erudite tattoos