right at the center,

what feels like a split, a fault line or a fissure,

is really the whole in masquerade.

there is the one that is sharp and new.

that rages, probes, conspires,

reacts,

leans forward and back.

and there is the one that reaches down, and up. lives lifetimes, locks on,

and lets go.

this is the time when sanity is questioned and god is summoned.

when intimacy becomes owned, familiar,

craved.

this is the elbow thrust to the intercostal, purple bruise and

wind knocked out.

power-played and ego-ragged, worn fingertips on the edge of granite and vows.

this is irony and insight, tangled transcribing,

escaping, mirrors, and cliché.

this is what only feels like fragments, a pendulum ride

right at the center.