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.