wall poem

i once wrote a sonnet to a wall
rather, on a wall, i should say
in red paint
with my ten fingers
along its neck, behind its knees
a syllable for each brick
feet for its corners
and the wall bore my
sonnet in red
like a pattern, but added nothing of its own.
so, like a child, i leveled it
with blunt turns
of phrase from headon, into its eyes
spit and ire and dust.

then i looked down at my own hands

[red from writing and killing]
and grew silent.