all day long
I vacillate between intention
and immediate withdrawal;
my habits, my beloved

hermeticism and the double meaning of
everything and I’m
ambivalent about every choice
I’ve given myself over to–
even in completion,
I shrug.
let the wind take me.

now I am in blindfold,
a preparation and I am forced to
declare it.
   your arms are free
someone drew two swords and
showed me and I am superstitious,
lining wrists with crystal rosary and
jasmine smoke and tea and
smashing my fists into a
mirrored wall to feel the way
(across)
it might when I finally
say something,

when I finally stand still enough
to embrace the thing that’s
said.

7.