Last night I grazed my eye along
the twin knives you use to open
yourself to the sky; the light
sharp in relief, like a laser line
streaking from the locked handle
to the striving point. Earlier I took
you to the mental health institute.

They tell me it’s not my fault,
but I know they’re wrong, know it
like the slight pinch it takes
to release the blade back to its sheath,
like the scar the edge will raze,
like the all-nighter lies, like

the mopped-up blood dropped 
in the can. I don’t think you can see
the dawn from the institute’s glazed
windows, so I brought it for you:
orange sherbet lies beneath the clean
trees, a slash of pinks that bleeds
a piquing blue, cradles the descending 

half moon. Again I’m watching
your knives, their delicious teeth,
the military snap when they crank
in place, like the institute door
drawing-down the sky, like your
one-handed hug, or your waning
eyes. There’s no way to hold a start.

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