in which
stillness comes
to murder us.
We really don't know
how much we depend
on the restless fury
of all that writhes within us
until it slows
such that the heat starts
to go—
and even then...
*
"You don't know
what you don't know,"
one unfertilized
egg says
to another,
as if suspicion of everything
was really a way
to fake this existence
until it gets
made.
*
How do you even know
if a poem is
making good points
when each sentence
is tailor-made
to slip
like trick cuffs
from the wrists of a
practiced magician
freeing himself
for the millionth time
this month
from the painted-on
prop cage
of language?
