String

Sit, on a block, in the damp air, under a nuclear sky. And ask: Why do they do it like that? Why do they do it at all? It walks toward you, it kneels at your feet, out of reach, it sits behind you. Then rain falls, and it slinks away. Rain on the forehead, rain on the back; rain on the shoulder, on the knee, on the fingers.

The wanderer needs to walk and the walk needs a wanderer. Limbs that quiver refuse to move. Animals stoop at the feeding bowls. And the roses pay no heed.

The porcelain bowl rings as it's dragged. Why do we look, why do we ask, why do we write, why do we be - why do we sit and stand and do nothing? The rain starts up again.

Sky, wind, and weakness. Time and age; speed and slowness. Phases, rotations, purring noises and little ants. Contentment, fragility, and weakness. Movement becomes motion and motion becomes motionless. And above all is the waiting, solitude, sentience, judgement, birth.