C A P T O R
Where have I left my
broken sword,
my strong-willed
swift escape?

Tarnished wood tables
 greet me
in rooms I once saw
plated with gold.

A sewing machine hums in some
dark cavity
on a night marred only
by its shortness

I walk past your door
grasping the hilt
I count on you not to stop me
and
my hands are empty
when you do.