Dance round the vice in silence. Prick your heart
with the broken record stylus, let it
bleed out and boil, up to your chest, your brain.
It’s slow, no thought to panic, just writhing
in unease. Blood into a steaming pool,
enduring the ancient dance, elusive.
Unpredictable—you can’t look away.
The vice is near and tradition follows,
and for reasons of the heart, you remain
in limbo, in the deafening silence.
If only they had let the needle be.