The problem is the birds won’t stop
flying from tree to tree,
songs and silence with no rhythm,
the sun constantly in incremental
motion, the growing of shadows.
Before I can say, “I am” I am not,
that my body and soul follow
different timelines, that my heart
and mind are antagonistic,
that I’m always missing
the fullness of time,
a fine four-lettered word both
sacred and profane and sometimes
sacredly profane and profanely sacred.
And what I don’t see is if this is how
things are, then what’s the matter with me?
-Byron Hoot
