Just the few small
efforts it took
to install myself in a chair

paper, pen
ready to compose

just lifting the pen
causes a sweat to break.

This dew along the hairline–
it’s the weather’s doing
is it not?

Perhaps it is
too hot to write today.

The very thought has me
conspiring with the fates

to let me off
the hook of any concept of
free will.

And then I notice, having come
this far into this little writing

nothing is perspiring anymore.
Nothing does

if you stay very still.

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