Hymn to Small Movements
Bauble up you screwed on head, behold the blue bestrewn with light and the patinas of far distant vapors – as well the bay leaves murmuring in a light and pollen-laden wind: behold the self, disappearing on the crinkle and groan of a motorcycle engine, borne aloft on this exact edge of now, the place where everything happens, the time when time is most and least of meaning: behold the shadow-littered space between a person you love in a chair six feet away from you, breakfast bowl and cell phone. The motorcycle is halfway to Pope Valley by now but I am back in my heart, having returned through an open window with an earwig and a delicate swirl of dust.