pride (for keeping
both inside would surely kill me)
slowly I start to move about my daily exercise.
I jot, I push and talk, repeating.
I see the movement, become the movement,
swallow a little water
I carry, repeating. And I notice it tastes good
to me. It tastes so good
and so right
that soon I begin to notice a new endurance, as
steadily I continue now—to move about my daily exercise;
the force and object
of which, presently, feels far less heavy
than it does substantial: to lift
the words off of their objects.