Circles by Izaac Bacik You need to know: Writing this poem was 60% pacing. My method also included 20% squeezing hand sanitizer into the crevices between my fingers and keyboard keys, 10% tugging at my clothes and 10% worrying that everything I write is going to be taken at face value. These words are not my face. I read somewhere that poetry has body and soul, That poetry conveys life and death like a memory or a photograph or the laughter of a loved one—but my poetry doesn’t smile. You cannot take a picture like the ones in my head. I tread steady circles around coffee tables and stairwells and the downstairs of my parent’s house and I would circle the world if I wasn’t afraid that opening the front door might wake somebody up. This poem isn’t meant to wake anybody up. This poem is room temperature water with a peanut butter sandwich. This poem is checking the windows with each circle around the main floor. This poem is setting off firecrackers in the wake of a fireworks show. This poem is another circle because I’m always collecting more. If I walk enough circles I’ll catch up to my house, and eventually out-pace all the secrets that got swept beneath the oven.