way I panic
and start to miss the moment,
even as
it's happening;
the way a certain worry
just explodes
into my head,
while another one
spares me—leaves me
unmolested;
the way The Valuable
has a penchant
for staying so small
and revolving around
the same precious nouns
like elections in stable,
orbital shells—
all remind me, somehow
of a child on a carousel,
deriving less comfort
from the rhythm
of the ride
than they do
from the inexorability
of a circle—
not to mention
the surety
of being
observed.
