Can we say we are resourceful when
it comes to contrived contraptions
of the mind, being manifested into
little bends of the nail, chip off the
rubber, a jagged cut into paper
only noticed when we take the time
to demonstrate an absorbed
reflection from a rippling waterbed,
a green leaf that never falls, a worm
in a crack on the sidewalk that sticks
up like a crater, only to be smoothed
out over time? There is no other way
to measure change but the ceaseless
turn and ticks and digits and rings
and bells and songs, to make space
from one up to another, to make the
down not so far down, and so that
the wait is like a jump over puddles,
a flash of one foggy memory of color
to another, a field of flowers where it
never rains, a cloud that in the sky is
there to add contrast not water, a bee
resting on a tree to add color, and so
we let it go and go and go, and go on
with a cycle that we want to break.
