If measuring
one’s life as circular
makes sense of movement,
how should we muscle
meaning into days?
As if we end up
where we’ve dreamt,
starlight for eyes
and train static
within the folds
of memory. One story
arrives before another
finishes, not rounded
with possibility
but carved down
to a brilliant stutter.
We catch a glimpse
of self within the self.
Hope swims better than
it flies, arriving unseen
beneath the smooth
surface of possibility.
No one cares for the self
with as much bravado
as the mind, whose expanse
opens up
like a shorn field
before the seed.