Sonnet on the Edge of a Knife

There they are, the houses—
How she’d managed to get
First, a deathbed confession,

Second, pro-tips, post-mortem,
For transmitting messages,
To the living, who really

Don’t often try to listen,
Was beyond him. He listened.
He had good tips, but his own

Twitching ears, rotating,
Snagged him, reinforcing him.
He was not a good actor—

He was good at listening
For the knife’s edge, glistening.