title / unfinished

I ask myself: what am I looking at?

my eyes seemed focused

upon an empty space on the table

as though something belongs there.

I've awakened early, but that’s of little comfort.

if the treetops had their way, they might well be

the objects of my interest in the way the wind

tickles their fancy.

the roaring tanker-trucks filled to the brim

with gasoline off to my left as seen from the balcony

can not be reached.

I'd like to gather them in the palms of my hands.

I’d like to play with them on the rug, moving them

toward, and from their stations the way God would,

but that’s not within the realm of sanity.

so, what am looking at?

what’s the objective of this trance?

am I dying, and if so, why now while I’m at the center

of a perfectly noteworthy trance? unfinished