Put the Devil into Hell

Crab, it's all sticky inside,

my hand slipped on the chop stick,

there was screaming by the stairs,

blood covered frost,

front window smashed.

I scooped the shards before the dog,

and no way to know 

what the surgeons saw.

What is the gap between

seeming nice,

and knowing what one wants?

It seems a whole life can live in there,

all of our jostling,

reputation, 

and quiet repudiation.

It was dumb to stir the pot then,

ignoring the seething force,

of men doing to men,

what one man does to himself.

Could not have anticipated

there would only be one choice, then

to want your tendon to be one

and to be a useful witness to anger.