i am only trying to build something i find beautiful
a paper model of my eye, my feet on the six points of
the sacred symbol of my order
a wasp on a hand who does not know
whether you are poised to strike or study
do you think i will bite or sting?

jogging in the dark i cannot discern
whether my limbs are warming or numb
(no longer tired once on that wave)
there is a rhythm to life that comes and goes
itself cyclic in its chaos

the model ship up on the shelf
delicate and unfinished, rigged with fine dark thread
for your eyes only, never sailed
in the salt, what light shines at all hours
behind those tiny windows? small enough for
an insect

the whispers call everywhere and
we have trained ourselves to lean in
to try to pick words from quiet lips
to ignore the words of a song and
drown dreamlike in the sound

these times we, so unknowable

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