“What we play is life” – Louis Armstrong

As if I moved countries
I sit by a river
bubbling quietly by a bookstore
balking at the lacking sounds
assigning significance
like a programmed robot
“Rivers matter”
a green check pops up
a boost in a video game
acclimating to calm

Why try to make sense of more
than soft music
in a New England bookstore?

Steam is complex enough
and then there is New York City
not stopping
just striving
constantly in flux

Can one stop?
Should one stop?
How much?

…

The grass is not greener
We live on a seesaw
in a spinning universe

within which the formula for gravity exists

and has no impact on
each
delicate
step

Explanations divorce from the tactile
at an astounding rate

Autonomous nerves take over
paddling over wooden floors
centuries in the tilting
floorboards slanting
on recycled air of relativity
of almost understanding

Someone sat there once
brushing her hair and asking
how she looked with her chin
turned this way
when the sun broke
into helio-centrism
a blink in the history of stars
and universe

and here we are
wondering
what makes days
well spent?