The Hanged Man

Drive home the hands of one who vanished 
So far away and long ago 
Chattering teeth and eyes rolled back into sockets 
Trembling hands, palsied and contorted 
Sense-bereft and dystrophy-laden 
Touching the cuts at the corners of lips 
As if to pull the parted bits together 
Healing little more than the memory of the flesh before the grin was widened by the scalpel 
Knives and knives 
Nails to crucify us to the walls of our lives 
Long, bleak, slender faces in the mirrors 
In the pools of bile 

Hand in dying hand we cut the skin of this world 

Without a sound 

We fall into the wound.