when did a pattern of living become a life,
an indolence, an indulgence in the impossibility of action,
a relation to production, produced, compressed, now missed,
as if misses were wishes, instead of being,
like time, a thing which can only be opened up, and not revealed,
this feeling, of being, unbound and overgrown, cracks in
the whitewash, the whiteness, the whitespace,
knots of the soul's sensus, making given all the time, and space,
and care, needed, to learn repression, sterility, utility,
cosmity, panaceity, university, ductility, progress
shaming the kudzu and the cherry blossom both
while pretending its nemesis is the rootless
but life roots, rudely, reproduces, loots,
and words are always first themselves as they slip
from tongue to tongue like butterflies. to live, then,
is a matter of forgetting to time, and death a time
of forgetting to matter.