it makes me laugh, I tap my foot and enamor myself with impressions of a young creature that fumbles about in a cage like something plucked from its native land and embellished with rich food and pet names –
there was a time when this idleness caused me to suffer; this stillness lead me to mourn.
all is grey, all is slanting upward, and the water and oil catch more of the sky than they do of the earth beneath it; and I blink, and I blink, until it has nearly met –
what of it? it strokes my face. what of them?
there is no answer on my lips