when this is happening
this is the only thing that
is happening. sitting in
the passageway we are
inhabiting, strung up by
sounds and searching
the gaps between words
for clues. even if we are
not talking it does not
mean we are not talking.
creating a clatter upon
creaky floorboards,
dangling a gold watch
swinging, lurking inside
breaths that are stolen;
you tell me I am not the
god of movement and I
agree. the past is a fiction
conjured into the room
like a bawdy intruder and
the future will arrive
eventually without
consent. there are no
facts and the only truth
is that this is happening
now. there is a buzzing
around us, a rushing
feeling as we push the
air with our thoughts.
they rise like bubbles
and gather at the ceiling,
clustered with an infinite
number of bubbles, all
waiting to descend
singularly upon us in our
sleep.