Poetry

With the tip in the center, 
this is the circle of an iron will 
undoing the circination. 
 
You are moving in a straight line 
now. The knots in the chest 
will take you to surrogacy. 
 
The needle's eye was watching 
you― gauging your grit. 
Can you take a prick? 
 
Without blood? From an 
urn you lift a red string to tie 
on the hands of unborn thought. 
 
You miss a line, a word 
an image. Still it happens deep 
inside. An angst constricts you in 
pythonic grip. A poem becomes you.