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