Monday, August 16, 2021


There's a very real sense 
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 

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?