Is it the lazy pull of my stitches? 

Where it strings me along – forward to 

Vague cotton and cardboard lands, passing light weight 

with wasted time between breezes. From far away, clouds forged

By sanctitude. Resting in an old tartan pillow. 


Is it the tight tug of a move?

Between bent lamp posts with faulty electric

Wires splayed out from metal chests. I take my rustic heart

Where I go with these roads. Introducing myself to new hedge

Acquaintances, new window worriers.


Is it the homespun tying knot of keys?

The crawl of unknown paths, unfamiliar street names

Which stretch narrow and goading, cracking muscles upwards

To enhance my sense of self. The wriggling monotony of untouched locks

Failing to cooperate. 


There it is. 

that urge

Don’t Stand Still.


It only kills time

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