That’s it.

--but I feel it
upping on my liver like
a bird caught and
making that terrible violent
knocking noise flapping
itself to bloody exhaustion. 

ANXIOUS
That's it.
I point to the air, 
at the word
floating in space
& time
& time: 

Again, I'm talking to myself 
in front of
a room of people--

(Quick! put that hand down.)

but can't stop 
a spot in time
forgot and got 
moved on
to get lost
every night, fizz
to fill the shape by
morning it's all
resolidified brick floating
in a woman shape to
nurse & chink 
away, to buff
& smooth in
vain effort, to
hone an image
of all the words
I know, half
the people I know, and
some smaller bits
of world I don't. 

and what emerges
is a composition unrecognizable,
a wild creature
augmented beyond
what is desirable
in space
& space
& time.

Rip it open at the liver.
Let some great eagle descend.