Coincidence remind us our dreams
Terrorize us with responsibility.
I could have moved a long time ago, I suppose,
A supposed fraud when it comes to momentum.
We sit and sway and swing when our feet lift from the ground for a moment
I give myself away in letters
Just to be tugged gently in another’s direction
I like to be pulled on the sleeve,
Building a little sweater from discarded down,
Never hurt a soul
But it’s a solemn task,
Turning the disordered into something patterned
I take a pysanka from the table’s wicker basket
To shake it: rotten on the inside, but so painstaking
In red lines on the eggshell
And I wonder about whatever sits in my skull trembling