Wrist Deep

Steven Carey does not bite his nails
like a nervous child, like a rat gnawing
at the walls, scratching at the low ceiling beams;

does not fall asleep in bed with beer;
does not smoke late into the night; does not
wake up after ten o’clock or go to bed
after midnight; practices regular calisthenics,
works pecks, legs and back in regular intervals

allowing time for healing; runs two miles
and does not throw up; does not punch
his fists into the walls sometimes until they bleed
only barely at the knuckles; does not split

the silverfish in half and spray their babies
down with bleach; bathes regularly with soap
and (bleach) water; no longer sitting in a dark room
wondering; no longer pressing himself
against or into everything, like the atmosphere,
the clouds, or god; no longer so selfish.

No longer afraid of circles and everything
that circles mean; does not break sticks
over his knee anymore; coming to terms
with the universal analogy; does not furrow
his brow at on comers like a cowering foal,

a hen in a coop, a pig in a pen, a man
in a cubicle; does not die a little every day.

Does not put ice in the skillet to watch it melt;
does not pull hair out like new grass
from the moist summer soil; greets the morning
with a sense of admiration; does not fret;
no longer jealous, envious; follows that commandment.

Walks only when told to by the signals; listens
only when told; grows, grows, and grows,
upon the walls, like so much slow uncertain mold.