Revert

Life is this deep pain, call it what you will:

stillness, depth, love – a bullhorn force –

momentarily displaced by ticker-tape rubbish:

bits and pieces: moving, doing, walking,

bits that present themselves as a boxed unit

with a decipherable label on, bits which

hang over and obscure the immovable field.

People, other people then: we say this

and that to proceed, manoeuvring

ourselves into what we see as tight spaces,

how clever I am, me, touched with that

sticky self-conscious pride that I am coping, making,

ticking off check-boxes.

And then the things that make you

feel good, you did them, and the things that bad,

same pathos. Still you snap back into place.

You live, ache, maybe even physically,

but the point is that you come back to

the same window, same launch pad – the point of

extension and moveless motion. There is

no change, just a reversion to whole.