The trick to deal

with a body under siege

is to keep things moving,

to be juggler

at the moment

when all the balls are up in the air,

a whirling polka of asteroids and moons,

to be metrician of the innards,

calibrating the jostle

and squelch of commerce

in those places where blood

meets feeling.

Fear.

Chill in the joints,

primal rheumatism.

Envy.

The marrow igloos

into windowlessness.

Regret.

Time stops in the throat.

A piercing fishbone recollection

of the sea.

Rage.

Old friend.

Ambassador to the world

that I am.

The trick is not to noun

yourself into corners.

Water the plants.

Go for a walk.

Inhabit the verb.