How am I meant to sit so still?
Wherever move currents, and the air is taut as the space before a breath I am charged with want to rush about.
I am, after all, along the way. Later, I'll say I was on my way.
What dangerous hesitation is this, fed even through writing? It validates itself when blood turns backward in its tunnels. Searching for stations of pain in which to roost within languages that swerve to attend.  There is so much that I want to do. I could will it, yet, tonight the silences sit vaguely, overexposed under the same lights that obscure their meaning. I should turn them off? Should I fill maps with thumbtacks? Or camp in backyards openly? You'll photograph this frenzy, right?

Here lays a swallow
What thing is this, dead?
Bared my teeth at quarterlife to ensnare a shred
of permanence. It kills me to know that.
All around the familiar sweeps dullness into
my corners.
Now to write, later to work.
I ask for attentions, the same that I give. But
my charms won't do, even though, cast outward
they are powerful. To me, each evening
is a surface requiring custom to make.
Here are the eventual scenes
come to instruct through their handling
of the past. I am eager enough to ask
of the one real thing that we have left:
To take someone forever-
To voice the rest through gardening-
To have kids-
Is it too late for use? Maybe we'll
scrap the old ways; choose
a new kind of main living.