When anxiety becomes circumference, you are a hangnail in need of soaking. Waking is hard; too much waiting, wasting wings waving iridescent clouds reflecting opalescent in midnight pools— to stir or not to stir the measure of a half-moon, a profile of speech, light + sense marauding to the tune of chance: dot dot dot but instead of being a woodpecker I’ll rubber band the wind rush to hold like a bouquet.