Ends of days:

Down in the basement

fiddling with the broken light

this is hell?

Days are drudgery 

and nights panicked flailing

and lots of little miscommunications

stupid secrets

Time like sand through fingers

but hotter than that oft

maybe

an anchor rope burning across palms

sure 

to settle with a thud

in mud

of old dead stuff

but When?

But I most like to think

in fleeting moments

I'm the broken reel

with a rapidly unwinding

finite length of

infinite test line 

wheeling off 

out of control

toward what?

bound by whom?

Snap?