the treachery of an edge

that had never opened

skin before it did

feels like being cardboard

boxes being broken down

behind the steakhouse in

the rain and feels like being

someone’s last cigarette ever

(before all the saudade)

there’s a pitiful epiphany

that feels like the treachery

of her promise’s fine print

or like watching a family pray

together (and the dad’s peeking)

their table almost levitating

out of the restaurant and

out into the real world

where we’re all waiting

for our skin to push the splinter out