Member Poem

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.