when everything is perfect
in a way you don't have a past for -
if death is not the end of you then birth
is not the beginning -
a whisper

the time you feel the run of
inherited sickness getting all through you
a day when the light is impossible
and the air is shallower
than the eyes can maintain

sensing the world as numberless
repetitive nows yearning starts
an engine given the impossible task
of taking you back
to some home you never had

it happens in a playground
a forest of legs and elbows
works a wheel around you
all full of water   time
voices of order   spike
you stand like a bag and surrender

or get blown apart like a dandelion
and everything that breaks
thereafter
will burn like a dynamite fuse
back to you

© Bill Pitt