whether we write, or knot 
(daisy-chained phrase)

we tie ourselves to moon
too soon, to storm 
too late. we debate ink 
over ocean swell. we tell 
ourselves the words won’t 
swim, fair-weathered whim 
will ragequit in mid

we find ourselves a-dangle, 
participles waning. verbs 
complaining, tangled in their
own bright skins. we wish 
upon a star, a jar of fire 
-flies, the flicker of a candle, 
the whoooosh of if. 

we love it. love it not. it’s caught 
on tired tongue
in wounded web 
on shrouded scrim of sky. we 
try it on for size and find it 
too big 
too hot 
too small 
too cold 
too vast 
too old 
for saving. 

we un
-etch it from our soul,
begin again. 

Written for Poetic Asides.

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