motion sustained

the park's covered in fallen blankness

and winter trees radiate

like struck mirrors

unannounced, the picture begins to move

an airliner eases in
you can see its windows, and 

out of desire you project yourself through one of them

between an Indian woman speaking quietly to her baby

and her mustachioed husband, who reads on his BlackBerry

how divine to live at the end of one's gaze

as though it were the tip of an antenna

down here, the body stands for the past

which, rest its soul and all, is fetid and festering

after a short while, right, you sicken of anything

and so you go for walks

or you pace, give chase

to yourself

i'm not much for travel someone says

and you see me i'm dumbfounded

i say that's what separates us from the trees

and i return to my poem

trees are incapable of loving

because they don't feel this pain at their own presence

er their leaves are alive, maybe those do

but it's they who shake as though harnessed