Commuted

Muted footfalls
soled in flexible cleats

like declawed soccer shoes,
longing for the rigid spikes

they never had. They make do
with friction, itself insecure

and poorly miming
a simple machine of violence:

the deathgrip tenacity of multiple punctures.
I think on this for a week

while my right eye is bloodshot,
the other still white. Things

that resemble teeth
too soft to bite, not cleaving

but cleaving to. A grip intimate
at the level of molecules.

I call my right eye
my Rage eye, like I’ve that virus

in the movie that makes
people tear each other’s throats,

but I don’t tear.
I just hold on, running.