In the moment, a beginning, when opened,
              cage is body. A city, prison. I am blood
              in the sinew of labyrinths restored. How it began,
   I was gradually introduced. This empire of the city
   and I. Careful enough to fit in the chamber of a car,
       held hostage by drumming sounds. Body shaken
by multitude music, well-guarded in this secret.
In the moment, a beginning, when pried open,
indicative of story. Body is novel. Moments
punctuate. I am a line that pursues the center.

How it began,

I was quick to expect the finality. This city before
meant nothing to me. Now that I have arrived, I breathe
through stations filled with hibernal faces waiting the train
   to commiserate. Questions form a body to converse with.
                                     Answers a momentous day, forthcoming
   of something, tremendous with the hubris of forecast:
   Today the sun is as shameful as shameful can be,
      force-opened the windows for air to bloom. This is intention
      of the season. Watching salt slowly descend, I know how to dance
   with my sweat. I ******* skin to prove it.    What must I be
   in the moment, a beginning, when opened? Whose body I long to
      cage? With what magnitude do I try to surprise?
   What well-guarded perdition I try to relinquish?