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I’ve learnt to love silence; to wait for the pause
That signals change, the turn
And turn about of the days in their form
But they’re really nothing you can count
On, those moments when everything is laid out, figure
One, figure two, pause, turn, damn.

It’s heady, that moment when the swing stops and you think, damn
I could hang forever in this pause
Between breaths. I have the time to figure
Out who I am, who I’ll turn
Into when I grow up, if I grow up, you can’t count
On that, as a matter of form.

After the caesura, the form
Of the poem sloughs its cocoon, reaches its damn
Wings out, and holds them to dry for a five-count
Then forsaking that pause
Begins to swoop and turn
Describing itself in aerial figure

My feet follow, blindly, the figure
I have memorized, the form
And structure of the beat and turn
A part of my blood, and damn
You if you think I will pause
And wait for your call and count

So it’s one, two three and four I count
My steps, one hand on your figure
And the other held up, a pause
While I wait for your fingers to settle, to finish the form
So I know whether to damn
My timidity or temerity; a linguistic turn

Who do you turn
To when the lights are out; who do you count
On to rescue you from the damn
Things under the bed, each claw scrawling a figure
On the floor, each shadowed form
Moving until the candle gives it pause

Wherever I turn, your body is a figure
Of speech; I count the words in your form
Damn the envoi- I want to hold your breath in this pause

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