In the move

 

 

 

 

 

I am eating salad.
The cat,
the cat finds a way,
finds a way to knock the Tibetan bell,
the singing bowl, off the shelf.

I put down my fork.
I feed,
feed the next disaster,
the thing that needs fixing or finding
so the next problem can happen.

I gnaw a new problem.
The garage,
the garage door won’t close;
the door thinks it’s squashing a baby,
not landing on a vintage slab.

I know vintage.
The turn,
the turn is one thing I learned:
any move needs time for moving,
time to turn toward eternity.

I eat in an eternal now.
The right now,
now is for feeding on the future,
the future-present ordering of your love,
a whisper away in this breath.

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