Do it again, that slick habit of mind,
the repetitive motion that gives your brain
a syndrome in carpal tunnels it doesn’t have.
Do it again, these thoughts and these actions,
this way of being. Kick this can down the rut
of the rivering sidewalk, the seam between
two hemispheres that slide together like
tectonic plates in your head, that bump
against each other like a thousand small
earthquakes you can halfway feel. Do it
again, knowing that one day, it might be
like Pangea, your mind — the two halves
drifting apart, forming new continents
so one thought, one impulse can’t even
wave at another, can’t even remember
your name, why it seemed so important.