I live a comfortable, comforting life,
with lots of order in this display of living,
at a noble age where ‘management’ is
the right word, and yet, yet, there is
in me a living thread, untamed, that wiggles
and moves and will not lie still and I feel
it there in the calm reflection of night,
in the cracked spaces of day not occupied
by tiresome obligation, in the moments
of resisting the ordinary and the banal that
can constitute life in fullness and emptiness,
in the times of feeling the weight of mortality.

And this living thread draws me to the edge
and it will not quite lie still, taking me
beyond reduction, flattening, to resistance and
seeing the world another way, far from the consuming
determined animal that I am, upwards, upwards,
to something raw beyond the fitting room
of my life, out to the intricate ways of living
and being that are not regulated but
open to the spontaneity embedded in every day,
to the wholeness of the implicit order,
to the universe as both order and chaos,
where the thread refuses to lie flat but weaves.

 

11/4/2026