The Cut Outs Poem by Judith Skillman

To scissor the palm from an azure sky
men come, holding blades, unlikely
Machete taken from a drug lord whose luck
Fell when the tunnel entrance,
Hidden under a bag of cement,
Exposed by agents, neatly ate the inspector
On his ladder. Without characters the story
Becomes a ruse. As, without the fog
Of weather, any night's becomes another.
To be laid low, to suffer on account
Of indulgence. I feel my shoulder for
Wings, find instead tabs of paper
Meant to fold me into this landscape,
Where we sit in a living room
Civil at last, you with your screen
And I with mine.