Perpetual Motion Machine

I forget that things are not always at an end.

I sit on the bed and look down the hall,
and I think,
What is this life? How have I come to this point?
as though I came here,
as though I have arrived at a point.
There is no arrival, though,
and there is no point.
The foot of this bed,
this melancholy afternoon,
this dull moment:
they are all playthings I roll between my fingers,
boring toys.
The search for meaning is no deeper
than a privileged entertainment
because I don't want to do the laundry.

Feet are not still,
not even when they hang above the hardwood.
They invariably consider movement,
if not direction.
They run,
even while we sleep.

There is nothing to consider about the sense of sitting still,
no depth coursing to be picked out by will.

Some are born wounded —
we heal as we walk —
and there is only walking.