The Gear

Three AM. Hand out for the switch

and hitting wall—an inch

from where I swore. That's thinking:

always just past where you're reaching.

Stop. Except stop is a thought.

The thought about the thought I caught

makes two more. Now the whole machine

is running on the gasoline

of watching itself run. Lie still.

Eyes shut. Still.

The mind that says it's off

is the mind. I almost laugh.