my analyst asks me What is it like knowing the future?

It is like being a verb both transitive and intransitive, I tell her, for example
Gods do not hurt.

hurt is something humans do to themselves and feel for themselves. this is the middle voice.

I am I become I live have no middle 
voice or balance.

when a god has spoken in you, 
you know there is no middle voice

just an unspooling like a wire fence across flat land

Where are we? she asks
and I reply, we are on the fence of course

and we fall to either side.

*

the semiotic has just come up between me and the tattooist when the needle hits bone.

At this moment the universe is perfectly syntactic,
the stars move closer and roar like marriage torches.

pain is a neverending mouth cupping me under its tongue and humming. this is chora.

the tattoo is of a starling,
the last living thing I will see

framed against the tomb-mouth's bite of blue.

The tattoo gun makes the sound
the starling's wings will make against the rough stone

flashing the sign for 'enter' into 'exit' and blinking off.

It mesmerises me like a heartbeat, the needle 
pulsing over my womb.

*