Your Move


There's an uncatchable light in you.
Unmeasured and immured,
It sits and fingerslip quick twitches, darkly illuminant,
Waiting brightly. Ungrasping,
I pretend to think of other, more concrete, things.
A tree, a trail, a watch, a wasp.
I hope to not get caught out.

We watched and waited, flustered/unflustered.
We watched the fist rest on the floor.
And the eyes that lay flat on faces
Like fried eggs forgotten in a pan,
We watched as they flicked and fell into quiver.
Everyone, not me merely, metamorphoses.
Eli Wallach in a Sergio Leone, nerves set to snap jagged,
The act of waiting wearymaking.
The very air weighs me down these days.

For some, it suffices to feel the waves of others pass over them.

Your knuckles remain uncracked.

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