With the tip in the center,
this is the circle of an iron will
undoing the circination.

You are moving in a straight line
now. The knots in the chest
will take you to surrogacy.

The needle's eye was watching
you― gauging your grit.
Can you take a prick?

Without blood? From an
urn you lift a red string to tie
on the hands of unborn thought.

You miss a line, a word
an image. Still it happens deep
inside. An angst constricts you in
pythonic grip. A poem becomes you.