i was just about to
move

the grass bends
a path;
the tour ends.

there are several shuffling steps the bottle
takes as it falls through time and space

each one of these can be represented by
the moment itself, or the moment before,
anticipating, bracing, observing

or the moment after,
retracing, living in the glow, debriefing

i built a monument to all three
and it sits around the corner from
the more expensive pieces, in relation
to the exposition, as lesser
views, subtracted from the moment itself,
usually sadly do

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