Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings- Jane Austen
I sit with the hallway light
Spending time loosely
As this linear tumble
Collapses into itself
How many parts are there?
Split at a minute decision
My voice echoing faintly
As when true sounds are absorbed
Into a dream
We were in the rain
Either here or somewhere else
I can feel the aching pull of memory
Even if it isn’t fully mine
I do not think I have been anywhere
Other than right here
Life divided into
A million movements
Independent
And alone
