The Culprit

He has a key
and in case he can’t unlock the box,
a case of sharp knives to prize apart
the unmanned climates of my privacy.

The trees, the trees,
whispering in the uneasy breeze
they hold the line.
They send the birds as their brave emissaries.

“I am a fissure of men” he says,
“the jagged blade of unbecoming,
the first criminal crack that is god,
the broken blue eye of noon.”