is warmth, a touch that wraps

the body inside the sphere 

of a confited stillness. It lets 

acquaintances out of sight

while makes clear of what is 

moved by the reflexes from what 

is moved by the will. Sleeping 

with it brings rest, whereas waking

up with it brings dread. Every task  

even stretching out the palm needs

choreography. How the muscles

resemble the heart jumping up

and down: guitar strings vibrating

performing a nocturne. Come into

a remote swimming pool, the guts

lay at the bottom; tips of the toes

try to step forward against the water

echoing foreign languages, these long 

finishes. If the mind happens to stay

intact, the present’ll dissolve into 

threads of spinning, malleable voices

of interests, desires, devotions,

of what’ve said and what’ve done.

It is mild, a secret that ponders

the self of what it has become.

John Cai