Finger covered by jade ring
thumb's blood pulsing,
reading, back pressed
against a chair, neck arc'd to the
left (a slight pain there)
and thoughts flitting
with paged words the eye panns,
mind digests,
until comprehension 
is release, achieved through
steady force

broken like a stick
by doubt, its jagged
edge spikes connections
of sense, puts a spanner
in the flywheel, machinery
grinds, stops.

The blockage is
a sea-gaze and lull,
the nerve not steel,
not true, that wants to
disprove the gift, make it
work backwards, unpick, unstitch
uplift all good thread till
days unravel, sad, and I become
nothing more than
another woman

but the crows, now, the crows are
harsh, loud, my page still open
and head still full 
of possibilities
not yet broken -

the noise is loud
of cogs going round
my flywheel unstuck
and sound.
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