I’ve lost six of the seven freedoms
and can’t remember the name of the freedom
that I still have…it goads me on, robbing
me of any conviction of my shape or place;
it agitates me with each breath, so that
I am neither short nor long of breath but
syncopated as if a jazz played inside me
continually improvising, exploring territory
not on any map, lost as soon as found
I’ve lost six of the seven freedoms
and can’t remember the name of the freedom
that still has me…having lost their names,
I don’t presume to address the six freedoms:
how much the freedom that holds me still
feels like necessity, as if there were a cusp,
or many cusps where the two met and made
points neither freedom nor necessity but the two
joined to make something new, free bound…