a poem. yes, a poem.

okay.

so…there’s nothing.

there’s nothing to it.

sit upon a moment in time & pin it to a thought a process a page a desire another moment….

another moment passing & another & soon all the time in the world becomes no time & you look into your hands & find there’s nothing.

watch your mind wander lonely as Wordsworth’s cloud

attach to…

nothing.

okay.

but Wordsworth’s metaphorical you arrives in a field of floral gold & just like that:

there’s something.

there’s something you’re not going to quite pin down, a thought you can’t quite complete, a process of understanding never fully understood.

you & I are not the question asking we are the intaking thoughtbreaking wave thinking to formulate an answer

some method of response…