This is the story of ‘the twitch’.
We have all had it:
That bit of movement before we sleep.
We have been awakened by it when we were younger. . . it threw our arm out to catch us
before we fell out of bed.
It was even younger than that for us.
It was sometimes confused with a kick -- from our mothers’ tummies to the swaddle of
As we grew, the arm no longer flew. . . and thus. . . ‘the twitch’.
It is thought that we started with
a parting of the energy that mathematicians make Einsteins
sounds of the aria that Mozart’d
into our echoes of the day -- a marriage of concept and conceptual.
It took us through the outreach of awkward doubt. . . brought us ‘round the curve
for monkey bars toward the first dance; drew blood in our mouths before we got the first
punch – given/taken.
The part of ‘the twitch’
that is worthy of noting now is that
it has never wanted to be caught:
It wanted more than nothing to be left alone – perhaps; conceived that
it would be an occasion for cause. . . effect – the drive our parents tried to delay
with Dr. Seuss and Disney books. A teenage indifference took us away from
We all fall asleep. . . as we’ve always done.
The story of ‘the twitch’ begins at the thumb; carries on. . . for the course of fingers
Brings us a little closer to the edge of our beds.