I'm trying to write a poem where the words follow a certain pattern. At the end of each line there's always one of six repeated words. It's complicated, like trying the steps of some new dance. Instead of freedom, there's a certain way you have to move your feet as your spin around, tripping on your feet, or on your partner's feet. No time for words murmured in soft ears. No time for freedom. I have to follow these rules until the end of this affair. I start off by trying optimistically to chose the perfect six repeated words to use. Naturally these six words are important, kind of like the feet the poem moves on. Then I give up trying so hard and just pick the first six words that pop into my head, the way each brilliant end is achieved by evolution, given freedom to juggle odds and ends about, and freedom of will was never really one of six or so building blocks we're made from. In the end I realize I've already started, landing on my feet, running along the same old path of words I've spent my whole life running on and trying to pick words up and make something, like trying to lift yourself up, into some strange freedom beyond the pull of gravity, beyond words if that was possible. It's Thursday, half past six, I tell myself. Beneath the desk, my feet flex like silent dancers and the end of the poem's almost here, the way the end can quickly come when you're still trying to decide how to begin, to find your feet in your own life, amazed by all the freedom you have to fill somehow. At over thirty six lines the poem's long but it's just words in the end. All the different words a life is made from. I'm trying to let six words find their feet, to sound like freedom.