Is it possible that we are not going anywhere? Can one ever get anywhere? A photograph would perhaps resolve the problem. Or a book cover, assuming it is a problem and not - as Bohm suggests - a paradox. We are always in motion, outside of time.
Hummingbirds move in lines, like helicopters, pausing near the Zinnias not to be admired though it happens. In my dream, fields of marijuana, and something I can't write about. You are near, like broken glass. A penny found is not as good as a hit though it feels that way to the poor who are, regardless of our good intentions, the losing team. We are motion and time arrests perception, apparently helpfully.
Birds tweet, profligate novelists blurb. When it is cold trains can be heard before 5 a.m. on the far side of the distant hills. The past appears to grow, it appears to be real. We pushed the frame to a standing position. Everyone applauds.
As the poem skids - or hesitates - or seems to. We are always busy in October and sometimes it snows. Shadows high up in the maple tree observed while sipping beer left over from the party and I am happy. You go back to the start and try to make sense. The distant hills are not outside the ambit of Emily Dickinson's eye.
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