trace the skin
around the top of your head
with a sharp knife
and feel the thoughts
seep down your temple and tickle your cheek
like silent lava or
hot, crimson tar.

like the cages of a poultry plant

where prisoners have been locked up so long that
their skin grows around the bars

there is a dividing line.

there is a line that marks the day a prisoner,
with all his regret and suffering,
can no longer be confined to his cage
because he's ultimately become

the cage itself.