Words wrestle in me like pregnant thoughts,
their small serifs poke through tissue, paper thin and full of intent.
Skin letting go from muscle; the flesh rises along with me,
a memory of some past self, now buried under life.
It is possible to carve the day into slices,
watch the clock, don’t watch the clock, and watch the clock again.
A thin layer of frost holds in the day,
we should all be sleeping still.
I am not awake for his humour, a side wit;
as my brain still adjusts from dark to light, blur to focus.
Why does the self turn, like a revolving snakehead?
Strike at others, fangs ready to bite into itself.
Chataranga; body made of softwood, this pose
a strengthening of the will to bend, and not break.
Fur flying at 4am, and squawking like a seagull
inside the house, begging for something we can’t give.
A pursuit of being happy; the completeness
and the work that comes with luck.
The art of slowing; to dip into the future,
taking in each minute, the length of a breath and holding.
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