Last Quills of the Porcupine

You’d like to look it in the teeth,
Report all the way to the throat,
Not have to put your words aside

Until the jaws clamp down on you,
Not leave a record that dribbles
Out before shaken by that mouth.

Like an astronaut dropping through
An event horizon, go on
Talking about what’s going on.

Like a heretic at the stake,
Detail the visions to the end.
Write, here it was one afternoon,

And there was no shelter open,
And the body was as broken
As the bank account was flat broke,

And what was it like? Not easeful,
Not with the teeth clamped on the skull,
But, in those moments, half peaceful,

The building whirring to itself,
Sunlight outside the sealed window,
A few phrases still left to throw.