Sluice

Your teeth part, loosing a stream of invectives
to gush from between your lips.
The words pour through a woven mesh 
of burlap whose fibers are so coarse, the grid they form so loose
sound slips right through the weave 
like water flowing through a sieve.
The cloth is rough against my cheek, but still I can't perceive  
if it's your head or mine this sack enshrouds. 
I rest my neck within the groove in this eroded block 
as your curses rush along my auditory canal
to plug the drain and clog every channel, 
overflow cognition's aqueduct.
I hold my breath, wait for the current to slow,
wait for the blade to drop, your mouth to clamp shut.