Devouring The Tail // 22/01/26

You look up. The clock.
Neither hand has moved an inch.
They never have.
They never will.

Sleep and wake.
Watch the same things
over and over again. Again:
implying a past. So why
won’t those hands move?

An arrow flies through the air, suspended.
Time flies. To fly,
to be suspended.
A moment between before and after,
A moment defined by its before and after.
A moment defined by a before and after.
Flying, suspended, at rest, still.
The hands don’t move.

Halves of a whole are still something.
Then: one becomes two,
the halves become nothing.
Nothing gives space for the next something.
Nothing permits progress.
Still, those hands don’t move.

Flags wave. They don’t
move. The wind
blows, it doesn’t
move. The mind
moves and the hands
don’t. Still, the hands.

The wind can’t blow.
You feel the wind on your cheek.
The hands don’t move.
Your feet step forward.
Your loss means Nothing.
Nothing permits progress.
Your loss permits progress.
Look down. Your hands. Move them.