Fold this poem in half and it remains whole.
It spills across no page, escapes no ink,
but the words reside somewhere under your fingernails,
or in the hum between pulses.
Feel it? That slight static in your spine?
That is the first stanza splitting open.
Here, the enjambments do not descend—
they climb. They scatter sideways, in shapes
only your heartbeat can diagram:
long arcs, blind spirals, interruptions.
This poem dissolves,
and reforms inside you as
breath withheld on a subway ride,
the missed click of an email unopened,
the exact moment a dream evaporates before waking.
It waits in things undone.
It has no subject.
But it orbits—fracturing outwards—
around whatever you do not say aloud.
There: in those silences,
it spreads like a crack in glass, refracted but never broken.
If you could grasp it, you would feel the weight
of something both sacred and banal—
like holding water inside a sieve.
And even that sieve? You will only ever guess it exists.
Read it backwards (if you dare)—
but nothing reverses in a circle.
Each line loops back to where it started
without ever arriving.
This is not a poem for the eye,
nor for the mind—it is raw nerve,
a thread tightened just shy of snapping.
It unravels when you try to know it.
Now flip it on its side—
Tilt it toward your ribs. Feel the pressure shift?
That is the moment it becomes yours.
But, even now, it vanishes.
And yet—
you are still holding it.
