If you could ask
the great monk
at the top on the hill
who won't speak,
who's stick-thin;
the one
with the serious-
ly mutilated skin—
so pure, it
bleeds steam—
why he thinks it's
so fundamental
to yolk one's life to rigor
and masochistic exactness;
you might be pleasantly
taken aback
by the logic, direct-
ness, and banality
of the answer:
the best reason
to come
so fully committed
to the cuffs,
he insists,
is because it makes it
so much more fun
to covet skinny wrists
and fetishize keys.
