What the Knives Say

We shine, say the long
knives. They admire
their own narrow blades,

tangs, rivets, hilts,
crosspieces. You’re
at the inked edge

of your milky galaxy,
a black patch stitched
across the sky.

Stars flee from you,
deepening darkness.
Galaxies spiral

and collide. Knife
takes paper, the knives
say, slicing blank

pages. Like motes
of dust, darkness drifts
from your broken pen.