failing at predictability is often a cause of harm:

trip over another's foot

          bump another's trunk

                   miss the edge of a step 

a foot takes center stage

surrounded by all my other inversions 

is the light at the mouth of the tunnel                                   or its end?

accelerating electrons expose me and my next months’ problem.

the narrative arc overprones

with the strength of my big toe

with the crush of my tiptoe

up down up down, one foot in front of the other 

(catch a glare)

   i stare at the stairs

           i fly over the flight

right before the last lid slid over my eyeballs, the zoombdt alerted me back awake. oh, not a fly's zoombdt. i rise as if in armageddon, ready to judge and be judged. my aim is quick and my wrist quicker – one try and she stopped the buzzing. as i hear it resuming weakly, i approach the upside-down lampshade where she found refuge. the light bulb is dazzling and her body detailed: her little foot has been injured and she rubs it skillfully, maybe with care, maybe with pain, maybe with defeat. marguerite duras once wrote: "The death of that fly has become this displacement of literature. One writes without knowing it. One writes by watching a fly relinquish its life." 

i rub my foot at candlelight

  with care, with pain, with defeat.

                                    i’ve learned nothing