Three Micros by Michael Bazzett


They twist my words
into one of those hooked
knives used to gut fish.

Even so I am
shocked when they
use it to slice

me open. The cut
is deep and everything
comes shining

into the light.
What is inside

us was made
for darkness.



The words catch in the throat
a clotted sound as the gun
barrel clicks against the back

teeth. This must be some sort
of gag, you think reflexively, not
certain what to do with the sound

of metal on enamel in a scene
that hinges on the phrase
This is just a gag, just a reflex

action taken by the hands and the
arms themselves while your tired
mind settled into a chair to watch.


God Knows Where

but I don’t,

so I’m building a cage
to catch it,

whatever it is.

New Rule

*reference: dark like dirt but not like dirt