Freestyling

Body on an axis, a plane all it’s own—

Vertebrae stacked, aligned,

Proportionate to the space above

And the depths below we hope never shall we know

One arm—let’s call it right—

Up and out, down and in—

Stretched and placed

Cutting through—

     While palm collides

Over coursing, invisibly aligned, the metacarpal shifts, turns, turns, turning,

     All the while returning in, unnerved yet unnoticeably misinformed…it’s only the observant eye, the kind that can catch the ghosts that live between and through the chasms of the breath…bearing a structure;

An angular procession; with pulling tension, culling

All about, contouring what connections

The body feels, as it does, until the cycle

Spurs parallel, another action pushing further,

Away, and out, delaying all that could have and may still become—a semicircular pattern; a crucible undone, leaving only milliseconds before the symbiosis shatters all the ills that never were, yet thought had been, completed sums…Shall we…begin again

HOW many breaths will you choose to take in between?