Take these moments and hold them in hands held close 

this is the most I’ve ever wanted and the least I deserve 

and this cursing of a conscience with hands held bruised and raw 

take the times in the pit and multiply them by the times

my knuckles hit the wall ignore the sounds 

of the ocean for the sounds of the street 

or hit the ground running, leave this place and time, 

and leave the choice to me

now is my chance to kick in the door and rush in with weapons drawn,

or I could enter last and

be the first to pull the trigger

Figure this into calculators laced with blind obedience,

type this numbers and run the total

in the final count-what's left but a broken slab of pavement?

Trap these grains of sand between shaking fingers,

flip the hourglass and watch it hit the floor

take another quiver and run it down the throat put the pieces back together

with fingernails stained red and ignore the splinters to finish the masterpiece

This is another day of labor, 

scratch the wrists until they're raw, 

but the numbers run below the skin

Hold the phone to an ear and listen to the sounds of screaming silence

this is the last quarter, too late, the machine's already eaten.

...breathe, take a breath, breathe, take a breath, choke, and breathe again, panic.

Take the last bus and sit in front, 

move to the back, last call, the station's closing, 

and the security lights burn out one by one.

Color the lines red and paint the snow with pastels 

this is the temperature dropping and the heater's sparked its last.

This is the dead of winter, 

the last flick of the lighter, and this time,

fire.