can't name you quite yet

this is
the fragility of my hands
the weakness of my gut
the thrashing of my blood

this is the signature
in my stance
the quiet of my lash
the angular inversion
of rash

this is the piercing
caused by tongues
the clenching pain
that's rough
the cluching of your arm
against the past

this is the outburst
from the last
that effectiveness of wrongs
the outdoing pulled away
with tongs

this is not meant to make sense
senseless, against your wish
here, a riot, comes the poet,
in quiet prose, not banter-
less, meaningless it was
all written, as simple, in poem