I used to think I wrote the doom of you
with every push of panicked verse, a birth
conceived in gloomy beds; and in my fear
of causing further pain, seeming untrue,
I pedaled back, subtracting from my worth
what only multiplies. You did not hear.
Big plays in small spaces accelerate
the spinal flow from tail to brain. No fires
burn for long where comprehension turns its
back, intelligent, superior. Fate
relies on the misapprehended, tires,
twists me back, where playback loops inhabit.
What I could have said, I’ll find the language
for and say it now. This is my passage.
© Elaine Stirling, 2014
Image of English maze from http://www.conversationagent.com