Today I must not go and cannot stay.
Strenuous transformation has not made solid
things or the joins between solid things. Not
rock, not rooted trees, not the river or the
trickle fusing dust motes on the windowpane.
Rather, part has moved steadily away
from part, showed centre scatter, flinger of
hypothesized dot in which vacuums bloom.
Dispersal. It has made me old and kept
me from being born. Arthritic fetus,
I limp toward the pension of beginning.
Love and duty fill my hands, purpose
granting pause, while I myself slip through them
scenelessly. Gratitude for improved
resolution of a dismal picture
is strange gratitude—though all thanks are due.
Perceptions flutter, sway, down to the sun-chalked
sidewalk in kryptonite stutter: “Is it
a bird? A butterfly? No, just a leaf.”
The prickly pentagram commits no shadow,
events becoming smaller and more eerie
as we spiral toward what can’t and must be waiting.
Give me your hand. Your hand. Forget this next.
The cloud touches everything as it dissolves
in a sky absolving everything save windlessness.