The differences between things drive the movement from form to form. I am lying awake staring at the stars.

I have seen this pencil: the lead cracks close-up. A signature, an elderly woman.

Hands collect grapes from the trees. Time is fluid.

Fire roars violently, a face turned charcoal.

I have been given license to walk about. I slouch against the wall, tired, trying to compel my feet forward. A hallway, at last, I stop in the middle looking back.

Who is watching?

My mind has considered movements where peace has been the goal, the efficient cause.

Papers, one after the other. My mind swells, a sneer, a grin, from the walls. The light comes in from the windows.

Magic has not come. A shirt sways on the clothesline outside.

He heads out through the plastic flyscreen.

He spends a long time seated at the bridge over the creek. He is watching without murmuring to the flowing water. The clothesline has begun to rotate.

He has wanted to be overruled by a God-knowledge.

 

The sun in the sky looks down on me. It knows everything I think about it. My rage and lust for power.