i wake,
relieve the weight of sleep and waste,
step into steam,
soap tracing circles
around the tender regions of routine.
brush teeth,
shave the stubble of another yesterday.
dress.
drive the known distance.
arrive.
clock in.

work,
repeat,
pause,
then more of the same.
clock out.

take the trash to the curb
(if it’s tuesday.)
heat leftovers or dial for delivery.
scan words until they blur.
walk once around the block
and call it meditation.
sleep.

tomorrow returns
in the same grey uniform,
with the same potholes in the street,
and in the soul of the workplace.

it is a miracle to endure.
the nerves, the fibers,
the sheaves of thought—
all ticking like a well-worn machine.
my body knows the steps by heart.

who says an algorithm
cannot shape a life?
who said no?
some fool adrift
in a flat and formless world,
a null topology with no loops,
no folds to hold the meaning.

but those who grasp
the curves,
the twists—
who study the daily shape of being—
may find, within the folds,
epistemologies of the flesh,
ontologies of breath,
a g-spot of wonder
tucked in the tangled basket
of our bucket-list existence.

this is the monodromy of habit,
a spiral, not a circle.
a rabbit hole,
but i am no rabbit.
perhaps you are.
holes are, after all,
habitable.

bit by bit,
bite by bite.
we are devoured,
or we eat.