You Are Free

The galaxy's first breath

unspools into something other than its last.

.

A house inhales with you,

exhales you into pine,

into green,

into the shapes your mouth makes

when it decides to speak.

.

Yeats knew: the centre cannot hold.

Rocks don’t know this.

Animus moves through you

like sap through bark,

sweet enough for a child's tongue,

old enough to remember

every harmony you've exuded

and every albatross you've killed

instead.

.

Black for white; sin for song;

slapdash for rosary; orgasm for death;

hope for captivity; burn for allowance.

.

A penny tossed is a prayer.

A sword raised is a choice.

Both dissever toward some dream

you alone selected.

.

And you can run on empty.

You are not a machine,

mistaking motion for meaning.

Your nervous system

throbs and pulses with reasons,

and every reason

is a small rebellion

.

against the dark.