view, intention, speech, action, livelihood, effort, mindfulness, concentration

What is the word for the first moment of your morning?
How does it stretch, waking and how does it move across the room?
What color is the trail it leaves behind?

How do you hold your words in your mouth?
Softly at the tip of your tongue, before they spill where they will?
– Who steps on them?

Or tightly against your teeth –
building with the force of a gale wind?
– What walls can they tear down?

If your words were faeries/fairies, what would they touch, and how?
Where would you forbid them to wander?
What kind of damage could they do?
Who might they save?

If your thoughts were sentences etched in stone
along the walls of a narrow valley
what would travelers passing through
christen the place?

What words have you uttered that you would call back
and what would happen if you swallowed them whole?

What is the shape of your hurt
and the sound of the breath that moves through it?

Where in your body does it vibrate? Sing?
Pulse with its own heartbeat?

Is it restrained and leaked
with a weak, fricative braking – or
is there a silent, momentary collision of wills before the explosion?

How do you send your hurt into the world?
Do you pack it a lunch – a tidy sandwich
buttered on both sides and tucked into a brown bag
with a folded napkin – or do you send it off with a pledge,
slamming a shot glass on the counter?

Does it make a scene in the doorway of your throat?

How do you console the needful infant of your thoughts?