Cutting Edge

I cut my way through and out
with barely the right tool, hacksaw
and cutters sharp as demand words,
not that I could see where I would go,
to what end, a haze that might be
golden sunrise or mustard gas,
either way I cut my way through
as if in-over-there must improve the status
of my hunch to get beyond what held me
in it clenches all this year, the rubble stone
of collapse and loneliness, the dust of
do-overs, the blood-see of loss.
I cannot let it start over.
Out may be as good as it gets.