To Be Held By the Horns Now

It matters who sits next to whom,

and what I think of the arrangement in the dark

as arrangements get obscured and imagination comes down

to make up for weak sense data.

There’s an awkward push, I can tell you’re trying,

using your hands that way—

without the mindless automaticity of one

not deliberating basic motion.

Something in your face is askew,

breath collapses body,

a superficial sink into unruliness, and settling feels to be

a lopsided deal.

“The Now is just this: to be no more

just when it is.”

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