The thread

Every time I lie in that position
With one half of my body turned one way
And the other half another
I wonder when the thread will finally break. The thread of my spine,
The thread so carefully held in Atropos' hands.

When I finally get up, and start to walk in the path of millions before me
I recite words of poetry,
They're lurking and stalking behind me.

In the careful light of the moon,
The negligence of the sun
A rhythm always present
In footsteps and birds
In things, we cannot see.

The texture of water,
Like your childhood blanket or crinkled cellophane,
It's ever changing.
We never ask It to stay the same.

I am a hunter-gatherer.
The memories of the past
My words on a sheet of paper
The ebb and flow
The knockout, the resuscitation.

Not sure if things come easy
But I never seem to worry
Like a spider on a ceiling
His thread ready, reeling.

I don't believe in a coincidence,
The universe knows this
I fear she still plays tricks on me
But I write the way I live—
freely