Movement

Anywhere I go
I see movement from 
the edge of sight —
live dark blurs shooting by
across the floor or ground; 

nothing I can ever name
although indoors I sometimes fear
I’m seeing roaches, or mice,
or other beings shamed and shameful
by reputation; outdoors 

I’m less afraid than curious
although that’s ridiculous —
potentially what I’m seeing
fleeing me or speeding by
out here is possibly less familiar

and offers a greater threat.
Perhaps what I’m seeing
regardless of where I am
is something else again,
beings without name trapped here

and running for their lives
to alternate dimensions
where they are kings and queens
and heroes for their bravery
in facing me who for some reason

is privy to all this motion; also
I consider the likelihood
that there is nothing there, that I am
seeing things that don’t exist
and the landscape’s a mythology

of my own making. Maybe
what is moving is within me,
nameless and furtive, scuttling
like the memory of long-ago mistakes 
through my view then disappearing

until such time as I can capture them,
examine them, choose to hold them
or end them or release them.
I should be wary of where I step.
I cannot tell how hard they might bite.