Poetry

Things are always moving.
What stays the same is the rate of movement.

In the train we look out the window at the stripes which is the landscape blurred.

Identifying the landscape,
Breaking it into subject is an act of frenzied activity Where we try to undo the movement.

When we surrender,
When we relax again the landscape collapses back into striation.

And we are never in the train.
We are always driving.
The future is the end of the tunnel.
Sideways, up and down is all stripes,
A reluctant future being dragged forward
Reaching out towards a disappearing subject.
It pulls away as we draw closer.
The passengers are in the driver's seat watching stripes and the real shape of things to come
Is already here.