There's no way to know where I start. Or end.
What appears to be outside & so obviously
true is a trick, curving like a slow-moving figure eight
that somehow turns inside out. I can try
to force things apart—but at great personal risk,
for I'll sever myself in two, clean through the heart,
or hurl & spin out to the blue
only to boomerang right back.

Foolishly, I think myself closer to the basic secret
when I find something far too revealing, that demanding
voice I want no one to hear but me
as I reach further down, pull a gasp clean through—
all the way up from my toes
to my belly & throat—an ache
so real I can hardly breathe.

But I won't stop unfurling—not when a seductive turf
tempers and ripples before me. Then in a wink
I've vaulted away—only to find myself chasing
along my edges again, as I grope
for any tear in the surface, finger the air
for some invisible thread, come so near
as a hair's breadth from this riddle
with my name—born in a simple half-twist,
waving me in.