the feel of that back point
of the skull, resting between ears
that can't hear
and directly opposite eyse that close too much
the piercing of the head to the
floor, heavy, like a dynamite egg,
like a broken machine, total stillness.
It says, kill, kill, kill.
And the backpoint sketched smoothly
from a thousand strokes of the artist's
pencil, that is the murder, too.
All falls to the floor, is broken.
Already rested, the skull finally dies, is free.