Anyone good at i just need analyzing this one short poem, the hurt sonnet by casey thayer dark days when i awaken so i slump back to the swamp of his armpit, a whit from the arachnid he inked to the stump that’s left. so close to the vestige of it, the danger he’s a reliquary of: tattooed noose to venerate the fist of a slug buried still in his butt above a white cross for the men he didn’t miss. if only i could strip off the black map i sleep against and be his liniment, gloss over the explosion, the mishap phantom he feels in a forearm itch. he won’t leave the long tale his tattoos read for me, so i amend the story. any kind of , will be deeply