As if there is enough time
to waste and fritter on small things
I am watching a bug, an indefinite bug,
crawling down the wall.
I’ve been at it for an hour now.
It seems to know where it’s going.
Perhaps I should
get up and follow it
except this chair is so comfortable
and in the long sport of things
I shouldn’t move much, if at all.
I think this is where I should be found
when I am found. As if in that moment
I will know, or even care,
how far I’ve fallen from the need
to do things, feel things, see things
other that this bug and its path
to everywhere. Maybe
it will be different when I go;
maybe it will be
as if I will have started a new life,
a quiet sort of existence in a quieter place
so like this one, yet utterly unlike this place
where the hiss of the pipes is enough
to seem like uiellann pipes,
held beneath the arm,
sweeter and more haunted
as if they were the perfect song for a bug,
an indiscriminate bug wandering
and catching all
my vanishing attention.
“““““““““““““““““““““““““`

onward,
T