The centre;
endless motions around an
empty space.
Newtons cradle of the subject.
No object,
with no normal,
just the arbitrary setting
of acute angle defects.
The balancing act,
a clearance that is
Context sensitive.
(Too sensitive for your liking)
Hamlet’s indecision one moment,
then as the lever turns,
Toussaint’s cautious
reluctance
another.
But you wait too long,
and they say you seem two
saintly to commit.
A life cannot have a middle.
The pulling of your life unsettles you,
and brings to mind
the dwarf of Turin’s question:
If life is partisan,
how does one live?
(First written for Escapril 2021)
