…and time just stands still lately,
when it can—takes breaks, slacks off,
has a cup of coffee before back to work,
back to pushing the lines around and around…but you
never see it move.

And in the gaps I’m moving, sliding electrically
from current to current, thought to dream—
because I don’t have enough time just sleeping—so. So
many differences, whispers, repeated calmly
(sensibly—voice of reason, talking head and in my own but not my voice)
“You aren’t meant for this.”

“You don’t want to be here.” (I know I know I know)

sidling back in, calcified stiffly but moving, still, somehow
and ticking again, breathing and stagnant again,
just ignore that wonder, that worry. Nothing
to waste your precious time.

Again.

feeling for once, too tied up and too connected—I
was never meant for this, I really—too much,
floods of image and impression upon impression,
Paris at a glance and no time, none to absorb,
unless crystallized—and that’s not living
that’s nothing
too fast, pulling and ripped apart, moving in opposite spins—
our set orbits and we just happened to pass
in momentum. This mind meant for one
at a time, lines, singly and strained, dealing with
characteristic swoops and free-falls, screaming the while
(and you never liked that)
And.

splicing atoms, fibers, roughly destroying and covering (and burning the evidence)
just I need a pocket guillotine for feeling better—slicing
lines and ropes, just let me drift a while, bluely and calm.
I’ll come home

…and realized: time works now, as it has been
it’s all real now, and you don’t have to feel—back in your cage
and back to your lake, monster

I’ll be drifting if you need me