Seams

A seam is not a place, not a space, rather a void, like a borderline — not a destination but a fabrication of the imagination. Tear the pieces apart, slash every last stitch and the seam no longer exists — a momentary blip. Not a thing to hold, but to behold; and if I could  I would be held in a seam — in a dream — between where I am and where I think I want to be. Where the second hand seizes, where the millstone freezes, in static limbo, an asymptote withheld by infinity, an impossibility, a self-induced cruelty. Turn my gaze upward and sigh.

Espy a seam in the sky, a contrail on high — a defining line, dividing space and time, where “anywhere but here” takes flight, but to no surprise, lands right back down in “no new perspective” despite best intentions. For the white jet cloud is no intervention, just a mist, a vapor,  a temporary escape fated to dissipate, to disintegrate and I’m grounded in my ho-hum state.

But holey soles and cloudy eyes know the grass is brown on the other side of town. And between those sides runs through a track where bona fide dreamers sling packs upon their backs and ride the gap between realities, where strain and striving cease. A funnel of blue, blur of limbs pass overhead, bellies barren, soul fed, fully alive but as close to dead as Heaven will permit.

Aye so a seam, it seems, requires motion perpetual to remain existential  — energy not potential but kinetic, try to grasp it, forget it. Like phosphenes on eigengrau — blink to see them, flash, they’re gone. Smell the roses, don’t stop for poses, move on to posies and marigolds without hesitation. For God is in exploration and the devil in the details. So make for the trail, run in the fold, find the crease, never grow old, and know peace.