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Often I Must Bewail My Sorrows Alone Every Morning

“Oft ic sceolde āna ūhtna gehwylce mīne ceare cwīþan” looks like nothing I’ve known
but its meaning, “Often I must bewail my sorrows alone every morning” I’ve known.

In the mornings I grind coffee, repeat the sequence of serums. Slow gurgle of oils
and water, a heavenly body drips through the percolator, the only heaven I’ve known.

My body performs upright, balanced on two wheels, a helmet snapped under chin.
I grip my handle bars, shiver. The sun a distant ball does not blare what isn’t known.

Such are the rules of quantum mechanics. The moment we predict a pattern of
movement, the electron shifts, influenced by expectation, moved by what is known.

Often I am not moved by what is known. Even as one person stands over me, then
another, it was my body that defected, skin slouched in rune language, barely known.

This morning, I whispered into my hair after the aftermath, a sour drip from my skull
still cycling through. In REM, we dream because it is the closest in sleep to being known.

Inaccurate to call waking a state of knowing. I don’t know much as I push and wail
through the mornings. In REM we dream because our physiology awakens what isn’t known.

Late in the evening, here, an evening surface. I twirl my hair, eggy breath, a chin
sore from kissing a new mouth. We love ourselves with others most when we’re least known.

After the aftermath, the Swedish song tells us jag har gjort det igen and I think Plath,
my namesake, ancient olive. I have done it again, my god the terror in being known.
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