If you think about going,
or even motion, the destination
and the journey slip away from you,
becoming all of your old life
lost and buried under pavement.
But do not be still.
If you stare at the stars
or the lamp on the bedroom
table, at the stern sun
or its light turned back
from the surface of the grass,
you will sit for an age in darkness.
If you ask the clock for answers,
it will say nothing about months
and years, only the long and short
divisions of a day. Life’s ceaseless
metronome can’t promise
you are going to live.
Be still then. Hear the untuned
cello of traffic through the glass,
the sigh of the faucet, the heartache
of dogs in the distance.
This music is always around us,
a flowing and gathering cry.
January 30, 2012
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