We write poetry to bleed truths.
It’s easy to cycle-in
Is an out-cycle truly a change?
The book is not the same as it once was.
Neither is my handwriting.
Now we are ErRAtic.
Now we simply let go.
Because… ? … that is what we are so often taught to do… ?
Window scrapings in the dark:
Still on the outside looking in.
Dancers I don’t know.
My muscles are held so tensely;
(pain drives people toward expression.)
Soft rolls under the tension the surface holds.
She sees better than I do in the dark. She catches small offenders that would otherwise go unnoticed.
We track progress:
like an animal for some,
like a formula for others.