i am not going to pretend

i understand
the motion of a rock on a hill

the watch gets wound from far away
as the spyglass gets passed down the line

those at the far end know the sounds
that signal the end of tranquil times

and those who’ve left to make their rounds
can tell: inertia works the other way
as well

i never figured out a way
to make the madness work

my eyes are behind the times

as the front lines of a mind that
can’t help but try and identify
with the weight they can
nevertheless find peace by
strict othering

i am not my job
i am not these stones in a field
i am not the finger lakes
i am not that for which i am a channel

a sad negation
on a humid day
that won’t rinse off

carried by the air, transformation is
given another chance

but to thoughts without bodies
the wind is stone, a taunt

without even the words to capture it
a child watches a flower move

an explorer may bring back the land
but a tourist brings back the bug

looking at the graph chart of the treeline
i wonder if there is a middle ground
between jumping in and shutting down

even those who long for the
non localized eye
stutter when given a glimpse