Our Century

The boat was unmoored years ago.
But we don’t know that.
To us we have always rushed
On a foaming river.
And to us, this is calm
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
This relaxes us, deeply
The saintly newness
of a future we expect.

There are no doors, only corridors
in our houses – we run
To open them was too much
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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