something makes no sense

& all of it watching machinists 

work the levers of their hands 

is the opposite of pressing metal 

to the back of my teeth I can’t 

explain it my own hands 

daze me I stole a pocket knife 

from my father once & ran 

its dull blade against the neck 

of a salamander I couldn’t sever 

the head from the body the other 

boys in the neighborhood gathered 

didn’t have to speak to say 

what we wanted not one 

stepped in to stop me to save 

the small animal spilling

over the palms of my hands

I must have killed it but maybe 

worse I don’t know its life 

tossed like gristle we hunted 

salamanders spring to fall 

stripped the silk from our hands 

& replaced it with yellow

bark in a wake of crushed 

chrysanthemums & doors slammed 

the hair on my chest rose

then fell like clipped grass