For the Grace of Agency

Counting the abstract, their labor congeals.
Until dutifully coordinated distractions
dismiss out-of-reach and the weighing phase,
omit me. Speech is to act.
You could try writing aloud.
Scanning the equidistance for closed signifiers.
They fidget us improbably, foresight whispers.
My head in the accident,
atonally bound, uplifts its own splurge
for the grace of agency.
There cartridge unloaded in broad.
Merging then collapsible fantastic.

-r. miller