We are not points but lines moving,
weaving, darting, dodging,
launched from memory’s bruises
purpling deep to marrow,
to become tomorrow’s arrows
that travel their long or short arc,
and this elusive now
we claim to inhabit dissolves like sugar
on time’s slippery tongue,
each moment a threshold
halfway through, dragging our births
like shadows with us,
wearing our deaths like a
garment not yet made,
the present the moving tide
between was and will be,
surfing with arms outstretched
surveying every direction at once,
pretending we live at this insoluble point
when all is moving like the earth itself.

 

4/10/2025