A moving poem for the 3rd

The drawstring on my days is getting less and less effective;
Been devoured by a handful of hours so full
you have to push a several events out of the way just to get a yawn in,
the energy could fuel you from New Orleans to Nova Scotia.
Moving
Moving
moving in every direction.
No body can ever move in only one direction—
when we crept into a 3rd dimension we lost all sense of focus
spreading out of singularity.
It occurs to me that identity behaves in this way
unable to move but to take several paths entwined by the magnetics of space and time.
With place-holders shifted
I left a jar of molasses in the empty cupboard
and forgot to dust every windowsill.
I sit with objects made apparent by being closed into boxes
A conspicuous shower curtain becomes more vibrant by peeking than it ever did when fully unfurled
I avoid the flirting eyes of objects in boxes.
As others, I’ve no doubt have found
It is a singularly strange experience to carve out a new home,
like a plant trying to pot itself for the first time.
So I breathe.
The leaning piano hides cleverly
How drunk it has become with the play offered from bumbling, wayward fingers.
And in the end pajamas help the most:
In flannel fields, pastel sheep eat numbers to help themselves into sleep.
When I join them, I laugh so hard I begin to snore.



I wrote most of this in my car on the way home (to my new home) by stuffing my mouth up to my phone and recording bits.
it was smoothed over when I got home and "finished" (for this blog anyway) at 12:30 last night (or morning if you want to be all sticklery).