If any control befell us we might first give up
the sneeze, it’s strike-like explosion where
breath and impulse mix in an inch of choice
we seem unlikely to inhabit. We might first
give up the in-breath that escapes
when a (wo)man well-made up in our head
walks, alive and real, in and we prove ourselves
to our lust eternally powerless. We might
give up our fear, when the plane drops too quick,
our dreams, which overcome us while we lie
unable, for hours at a time, to plot the moral.
We might. We might, give up flashes of anger
with those whom we share stories.
We might give up our blood
pouring into nascent capillaries
or the pump that ceaseless pours.
We might then, minds right, find ourselves
solved and saved and in possession
of not one good excuse for our sorrow,
nor our misery, nor our giddy tingling.