The Laws

The law has found
A nick on my soul.
And begun to lick reasonably,
Like a cat on the porch in late summer,
cleaning its clean paws.
It believes it’s helping
But that’s not the point.
The nick becomes a cut,
Becomes a gash, a wound.
Their maws dripping
With green compunction,
More and more laws
Throw themselves
Into my righteous abyss.
They sink to the bottom,
Always deeper.
They drown in words ambiguous,
Looking back up to the surface
In hopes of spotting someone
Who will shed his robe
And dive on down to them.
Who will know exactly what they mean.