Torn

I know the vines
that pin a desire to the dirt.
I walk the miles of compulsive
destruction and the weeping despair
that laps all light from the stream.
I sit bound to the spot. In and out
of days with blood under my fingernails
and hands that can’t stay still.
Have I not given enough? Have I placed
meaning in the marketplace or belief in the computer-screen throne
of inner Armageddon? Like a split
artichoke, my shadow lands on stone and on grass.
It is only shadow but heavy
in its dues.