Puncture Wounds
Cameron Morse

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Why won’t you let go
of me, my sleeve?

I’m trying to slip
away quietly.

Trying to go,
to be gone,

to grow up
lost boy, get lost,

finally lost. Stop trying
to find me

in my dreams:
I’m not dreaming.

Stop chasing me
in your taxi. Put down

your heart-shaped
Uzi. I will patch

my own tires.
I’m tired, ready

to unwound,
unwind myself

from the disheveled
spool of the wind

in your hair.
I’m not your spare.