Not for sure I’m quite here yet,
time seduced by fireworks and frills,
distraction not being a place,
a detour, yes,
a movement smooth and effortless,
away from place and a time notched in meaning.
oh too bad this gong of presence is muffled
in imagined past, and future projection,
fueled by unctuous schemes and urgencies’ insistent barbs;
unanchored and drifting,
in the current of lost,
the waves of losing:
tactile evidence grounding presence in the world.
Waving the tattered flag of surrender,
a half-hearted life of neglect:
of discernment of porous beliefs,
of connections barren and uncultivated,
sometimes careless, often clueless
to the ever-changing interdependence,
registering spikes of false confidence,
when things go south
it isn’t you.