justwrite in the evening, justwrite all through the night

Rocking chairs puzzle about trees,
slice through them with their thoughts
while I dstract myself
from flashbulb lights,
wonder why I smile
and what my tears look like.
I imagine bits of yarn and paperclips,
winking at each bend
in the road where the tires coast right over the edge
and I think about how poetic it'd be
if only it wasn't real.
I grip the steering wheel,
grip pencils and some stranger's
eyeliner, can't figure out
what sounds the same
so I turn it all to Arabic, decide no one could ever understand
something like that
as I read your hands from across the room,
watch your fingertips
prance through the air
and your eyebrows become grammar,
while the backward words
on the screen fade into
green blocks with hidden lids,
a secret
I hide at the front of my lips,
thinking it's so profound,
like bricks crumblind
and my breath on a frozen window,
hair feeling my face,
feet searching for something
with no name,
but I can see it dancing, blocking
both light and shadows.

I slice myself
into smaller pieces so
I can fit through the doorway
that wouldn't be so exciting if it wasn't
brand new
and I once again distract myself, this time
letting the lights flicker
on and not quite off,
like shades of gray and black
circling each other, afraid
to touch, afraid
of the edges
and the things between them, afraid
of everything but being afraid.

I almost turn back
a few pages
but turn ahead just one instead
because though you can run backward
it's important to take your time
when you're somewhere you haven't seen before,
walk in ovals,
squares and stars,
pace on the floor until
it is worn through, finally settling
into a rocking chair
and puzzling over
why its curves fit so well.