A thousand sharp swords,
caged by the smothering sky
slides a figure 8 onto flesh
like fingers during foreplay.

Almost to the sky.

Falling never felt so jovial,
exploring evil parts of life,
evil parts of self,
and the jubilant destruction
of it all.

Steel’s caress nurtures
my carless sorrow,
digging into the past
of a shovel’s mind;
a mighty brain
burrows in the pointed edges.

A solemn promise could vanish
in the presence of a raindrop.
Gentle hands can drop a vase on the ground.
A thief can feed a family.

Almost to the sky.

Falling never felt so rigorous.
Falling into

one’s own batch of identities became the crime.
In the mix of all his shields,

he forgot which one
fit him best.

Clay Hunt is from Modesto, California. He currently lives in Oakland where he studies at UC Berkeley. He is the author of the micro chapbook, Born Shane. He has poems published in Black Flowers, Penumbra, From Whispers to Roars, and others.