Working Hours 7
am i again spilt?
upon the hardened encompassing aspahltine–
cracked and perhaps bandaged from the constant passing and plodding metallic wonders we have beheld and then discarded in our imaginations-those things
am i again laying?
dirt and oil filling in where life once ran
—still—noise and motion around says much about life beyond mine own universe
that place i wandered between here and there behind the lids of the sight-seeking craving ever incredulous possibilities! How much was not discerned, such magic that has already existed, that once ignored could never be caught again
this is my life running beyond my self, far where I cannot reach it.
i feel many things in one breath,
nothing in a second.
worker bees scurry about—drones uncovering whys and wherefores and hows and wondering watching wishing unknowingly glad it did not encompass their universe, nothing could be as disastrous as that own self shattering intrusion of personal space—
birds fly in the blue, dancing through clouds that call their names, names I never fathomed.
never before have i wondered at it, and that saddens me in my moment of first true perception.
sounds can become something other than desirable distractions in moments
i am again spilt, again am i laying.
next time I will do better, i think.
I think.
(2009)
