dancing
with paradoxical feet
When
you make good sense, cinch
it, as if it were the rope of your death.
When
you tell the truth, your truth, gut it, with your darken blade.
When
you are light and easy, grow
it, inside you as if it were your bones.
When
you are enraged, shape
rods of your love to that feel.
When
you die, time it, to
the rhythm of the rest of your life. And as you go, go simply,
and
take no traumas as memories . . .
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