patterned chaos

with a hand turned inwards,
pressing hard on skin
until it’s red,
forcing a mark to be read-
does it matter if it’s accompanied
by a banjo?
can’t banjos be mournful
or is it just bagpipes?
the hand presses slowly,
as if turning
a screw.
I imagine a screw being fitted
to my heart
and I think it would be special
to feel a clockwork ticking
without wondering 
it will skip a second,
taking breath from the throat
where the right words have been lost.
I have been lost.
but all is well – so well –
with so much sky above
and all its patterned chaos.


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