Lounging about, as we do,
in that limbo-like, that lingering time
where nothing happens, the now and then
where we find ourselves asking
which constructs are actually true,
and which but gatherings of desire,
simple deep derivative desires,
or if or whether or when
we retreat or get physically flung
arse over tip, chest over chin,
to be lost without trace, again to begin,
or to be stretched and hung, alone, apart,
shuttled off in rattling old cattle cars
to the rag and bone shop of the heart.
