[ w/ bright green large format dot grid & black ink ]
draw a circle in the sand from the lime bucket where it’s easy
to recruit language when it may save your life between each
flurry of impacts in sand redrawing but muscle memory stays
your hand’s guardian shape with every circle’s keyhole where
every keyhole translates the door it’s in & the door it is & don’t
hurt me i love you don’t come any closer & each time we beat
the ground it comes in fours with each tight turn that could be
tighter in the shape metal leaves against your chest because
each boundary is meticulously watched and we can’t flush all this
dust out of our eyes
//
this is the shape of your hand doing its labor before its work
this is everything ground down to its purpose