Breath comes from someone else.
Not you, not like you.
You write for people who don’t read.
Read for people who don’t speak.
Shut the door twice for nerves, for laughs.
You would if you could but you can’t so put your head down
then up again, absurd in your light that spends the night
refusing the moon they claim is new.
Not like the others. That moon.
And here you were worried about latitudes.
Never mind the new light, it shows the same room
and no one talks about it who isn’t
possessed with being possessed.
An educated crowd arrives
early and waits to hear what wisdoms you’ve
inherited from the flat country.
Invented from the flat country.
Holding breath on your move. Again.
Matters less what you do than that you do it. Or something.
You know, you know, you know
but you thought you were already twelve then thirteen.
Already had that breath beat. Out of you.
So you know and this is your note of
congratulations for not knowing
where to sit when they walked through the door.
The perfect cue. Line, light and now
–stepping to the mark, props in hands, unlit expectation on lips.
The line again, the same script. That corpse libretto.
And you shuffling your feet
nervous about not being nervous.
Not knowing what names to call them.
You feel that you don’t feel.
You can’t bring your hands around the right thing.
That morning idea of not being able to make a fist.
Of opening your eyes to bad light.
The wrong light.
What you get for not holding a pen and moving your hands
is the memory of the move that would have stuck them. If only.
What you get for not listening a lick in the last year is
the best version of the worst idea you
ever had over a barrel.