Still

Still life was a blur

<the streets were still at 3 AM>

whist was little wind

caught calm

in a difference between light

and the eye-

still and coming steady,

yet unsettled between a particle or a point.

Line like a wave, bent along the way

solutions becalm the whitened caps,

allay this urgent need to re-

tranquilize together

and sync without dupes,

to parse with perfection

connections hang on,

to now, never was,

still.

Toward or away,

It fades

once death has taken shape

of a relative theory explaining

why you are 

still

here 

noticing the calm collected

as a safe place.


Painting by Vincent van Gogh, Still life with Quinces (1887-1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Worry some, or winsome?

I feel no (blood) pressure.

No, I am

not dead (yet).

I wait for the machine to be triple checked,

and checked again

and asked

if I feel okay today?

(like always)

I do.

I feel my tail but don't tell 

and my blood is warm to touch.

Good veins, they notice,

they roll over hearing this,

I feel those too as they go back to blue.

Despite the vitals-

I am (still) not lethargic or pelagic,

worrisome or winsome, anemic, 

or academic.

I am like this-

          land locked atop shiny surfaces

even keel

in calm waters

mirror(s) but blind me.

I look across the reflection

and see deeply through

under the surface, currents collecting 

all trace(s) leaden in me

pumping ferrous Iron  

or capitulate by capillaries.

I remain 

calm under the pressure.

Painting by Vasily Polenov, c. 1886 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.