my work, a revolving door

closure, my greatest adversary   

i write in circles

straight through the wings 

&

into the throat 

my words regurgitate  

from memory

into consciousness

into memory 

a reiteration of

what is 

&

what has been

but never 

what is yet

to come  

reinventing the old

&

brandishing it

a new kind of vulnerable

evolve or repeat

is that a threat?

or just a tough pill

to swallow? 

my words are cyclical

(less circadian,

more lunar) I claw open    

old wounds 

and have to be okay with  

sitting in the stinging

& 

waiting for the Pain to pass

once more