To rhyme rape and ripe
and search, as though at half-
shadow, for where reason
might seep and stain,
like tears through a
blindfold, the heart beating
back a cruel drum,
the pulse that teaches
sentiment is never purified,
but only made decoy
to cold design,
the tourniquet’s twist
that prolongs the pause,
delays the utter rout
of ruined bodies, ropes
gone slack as rhyme.