AFRAID OF THE BLUR.

Here locked inside out of sorts;
Waiting for the day to announce its intentions,
But unwilling to declare them for it
Or take part in its performance.
It says nothing to me here
Or I to it there.

Passing it by on a stationary bench;
Unable to take up with the back of it
Let alone the front of what follows.
Slowly but not so low as to allow anything
Of mine to rise with it,
As a begged request would be too much to hold,
The attention of some flaked moment too acute,
The prospect of repatriation too hard to bear
And at these speeds too soon.

I’m not ready to accept any of it;
Let me improve my moods first,
And convince them they need a sequence
As much as I do, as much as the day does.
It’s not this segment’s fault or that section’s,
But the need of them and the doing of things
At such pace.

I don’t expect the day to stop for me to step on it,
But we should begin to align ourselves a little better.
Maybe I’m too unfounded for it,
Or perhaps I should rise once in a while
With a small child’s building set before me
And see what sticks, and not worry about
This much of it.