Above the Neck

Little winks from the tips of silvered tools –

you sat in stars.

Garaged dark.

And a skein of bandages on a little stool.

Wrapped you up, my mental pupa –

On a metal folding chair.

And all around you synapses
pop and flare –

I’d been taking the walk called
Head Bobbing on a Font of Blood –

I couldn’t believe I had legs

as the ditch streamed by –

spider-egged in a web of squares: chair, house, mind . . .

Iron-press of your mummy-suit.

Head free
to swivel and churn, if you could
break your neck
and be alive, head a lit house
sweeping its beam
through the constructed real, I

tied you up –

inside my mind –

where you’re sweating now, fisting under the bands –

Salt in your eye, can’t lift a finger.

What use had I for hands.