irritable reaching

when I want writing to be like weaving, regular, with a pattern, over and over, front and back, side to side

when I want writing to be like knitting, taking a thread, working it through the fingers, elaborately looping, around and around, attached to those sticks that are rhythmically clacking

when I want writing to be like First Holy Communion, wearing a frilly white dress and veil, taking the Man into your mouth, reaching after ecstasy with all young hope amongst your classmates

when I want writing to be textured, gritty like sand, or cold as a snow fort, the texture of shelter, the texture of sun

when I want writing to be electronic, beeping in response to commands, structured and styled, fuzzy only in the intersections, embedded in the overlapping rules of each domain

I don’t know what I want

seagull wing smashed onto the highway
feathers lift in the wind of passing cars