In the last storm that passed,
I sat in my crude car,
reading.
In that transition phase
between places & times,
all else soaked & heaving
beneath the weight of warm water,
except me in tin can cocoon.
The ripples only reach so far;
where will I go when I get out of the sealed car?
One is always leaving
to go live elsewhere or
disappearing
into a past,
like smoke
from a beacon blown out.
If I stretch out,
can I reach it?
Or will I be crushed by the force of rain
blowing down brutally,
like trees in abandoned forests
falling silent.
Even when standing still,
we’re always going somewhere