Politics of saturation and starvation
ignore sleeping imperative intentions
in this passing light wave,
with matter in tension and
motions of presence colliding
into another in to another
syntax

(spectrums)

like that. Colliding,
categorising. "It happens
all the time" again

the flower reiterates
as it opens to the morning sun
passing through into that
clarity in contradiction
while meanwhile, in the mind
of a small worm, dirt
is brighter than blindness.

Oh where does it go to,
this timid, fragile thing?
Are we reaching
or are we lifting?