upon seeing his shadow
the wrong time of day,

when his mind was working
the wrong kind of way,

he decided the only
thing to do was

take himself

so he mastered
the art of the tourniquet,

of scalpel and saw,
and silent gasp,

of homemade

of silken thread
and steady grasp,

then strew himself
across the land—

sparing only his
cutting hand

for reasons he
never sought to guess

(but knew in that way
we seldom trust)

to cover his eyes,
to cover his mouth,

to someday make
that final thrust.