If we are
like those rocks,
a mobile, made up
of pluses, minuses
and corresponding matter;
if the thought
of the north
star hurts in my
forehead, chest
and belly because
we are the same; if
this stillness is an
apparition attempting
to be generous; then
though I feel left,
the wake rushing
under my arms; and
though I think I must
no longer be visible;
perhaps it’s only
our disparate speeds.
As you spin into the
illusion of invisibility you
see me too tired to
call out. If all of this, then
this life—the lived and to be
lived, the one in your gut
and the one in my eye—
is one life and I
have all I could
need and need only
remember how to breathe.