The night when
            you said I was a dog
    too happy to
         please, prods

like a gear
            in fast orbit
    and each spin
        lacerates

the room bled
            bend, that type
    who nods; veinous
        wrist

hot to stick
            into any gap
    but, time
        dulls

and the blunt
            nib on
    occasion
        may

prod like a niece
            who thinks for the seventh
    time she asks Guess what?
        you won't know

That's what awaits,
            before rust
    eats the gear
        and pain fades.