One nail is still. It spends its nights alone
in sharp and straight and eyeless, mouthless fear.
Its metal is the only metal here,
on concrete floor, inside a house of stone.
The room is dark. The walls are far away.
It’s cold in here, and drafts have lined the ground.
No doors in sight. No exit to be found.
The days go by. The years. The nail will stay.
I slept alone. I walked the road alone.
My back, my arms, were swept in biting wind.
Each step I took, my feet sang out my pains.
A metal nail once sat inside my bone.
Lest I would fall apart, it kept me pinned.
I’m dead and turned to dust. The nail remains.
