Poem

Lifting something delicate
so the spires don't pierce
the tungsten paunch. The fever
will break with the administration
of knowing glances. From the look
of things, there are people who really
like you, what you do, and who you've
become. It is often necessary to observe
in silence while the pieces are pealed
away from your forearm. Like a steady diet
of lemony light over a decade of fear.
Let me be perfectly clear and clueless here.