The water spills and maids have soaking knees.
You tie them up and let them bleed. So slow
do leaves come falling down. Is snow always
so harsh? Be killed or kill… I choose to die.
So hang me up and let me dry. So slow
the world can spin on pointed toes and crossed
fingers until they stop. No spinning, crossing,
pointing. Stopped. The maids are cleaning still,
you killers killing. She and he and I—
we hang, suspended bulbs for all to see.
So lift me up and let me breathe. So slow
do dying breaths go breaking through the fog.
Replaced with new and better maids. With new
and better killers, me’s, and you’s to hang.