My thoughts stretch like
Centuries. They pull apart
And snap and make my body
Little more than a vessel

Of something or other. I feel
Flesh as if it was the bottom
Of a mossy pool. Or something
Else I know not of.

They stretch like mothers.
Bending, breaking in pieces
For the hand of what will be,
Forgetting what is and

What was.

I strain like a tendon. A fragment
Of an atom. A multitude trying to
Understand itself, over and over.
It’s over.