inside me, there's a knotted fist
of string
where the beginnings
and endings
of things ought to be—
long twisted tangles
of some equally inaccessible
near and far,
some tension
that's connected to, but doesn't
end with me
and the start of which has
always been
somewhere else entirely.
*
I used to be more
exact than this,
but that was before I knew
letters and numbers.
Now, every frightened thought
is less a mandate
than a blundered attempt
at a revolution—
which is
to say: half senseless
directionless,
nonproductive motion
and half little battle
for the truth
of some previous-
ly governable situation.
