Everything’s slightly off.
For months the firmest of acts refuse
to keep still, unspooling from me
at low frequencies.
It’s only when I scour the ground
nose slanted in the dirt
that I spot an open parenthesis.
I pluck it out with my teeth.
Careful not to undo
that knotted eye of beginnings.
Now I proceed through my days with caution.
Not knowing when this aside I live out will close.
A figure making its way to the temple, 3:42 AM:
bone in the wind’s throat.
The tongue cleans the bowl.
The forehead soaks up the wooden floor.
Shave off the metaphor until it’s lean,
until it’s purposeless.
Sediment of the day wiped clean.
Sitting still, pulling at the root of consciousness.
Then comes the needlepoint of language
which makes a thought visible.