Breaking Point

Your hands can grasp
at fragile wristbones
tired from leaning on the pavement.

They can fight off words
capitalized in thick mud
where they sit waiting to be read.

A shallow breath can end
where a stranger on comes in
with a tide of hope attached.

Your deceit can infect
the cuts on the ground,
an insane gesture bleeding out.

This stick has to break
eventually it all goes too deep
we wonder what happens in the end.

To be lost in the snap
sent to the place where love
works in backward circles.

Where is your point
in this run towards doorknobs
that lead to uncertain questions?

I found mine dusted
beneath the floorboards
where the coke turns green.