Our Century

The boat was unmoored,
but we don’t know it.
To us we have always sailed
on a foaming river –
the endless stillness
of absolute unrest.

Your necks are aching now, for sure
but we can swivel
our heads back and forth –
watching the shore.
The saintly newness
of a future we expect.

There are no doors
in our houses – we run,
we tore them out.
Now the wind follows.
Do we give cause to it?
Or does it give cause to us?

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