Twirling

When the day is tough or
I’m a little bit bored, or
a thought from ages ago drills
through the back of my skull, white hot,
burning through my optic nerve-
I go someplace else,
just for a moment,
a place of soft focus,
of wrapping a strand of black, black hair
around fingertips, of
twirling, and losing track of
my place in this world.
And I’m told my mouth hangs open,
or I murmur,
but I don’t mind.
I’m busy,
I’m twirling in a place
of gentle emptiness.

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