Sisyphus

I hate this slow moment most of all –
The jog down the pylon line pathway
swatting the damn flies which lick my neck,
which never land the same place again.
In the moor gloam either side of me
run streams and flow pools I could never
taste – trust me I tried. Where lignified
weeds and deep bogs block my sly attempts
the world chuckles – and I can’t stand it.

Each time I reach the rock’s resting place
I breathe deep, smell the old and empty
concrete garages of my youth-time.
Hear in my head the forgotten words
or wordless voice of the long deceased
and this directedness towards tools
– god, with no element of purpose
even then. I never learned to build.
Now push, again unsure how I feel.

My hands lost the rock, my god, the dull
rock which propogates each night within
my skull. And it flew down the incline
of this humid and reed haired hillside –
to the point where I can find no sleep
except when walking behind me, I
see me, with nothing else to guess at –
I hope, god this is not some new thing
some terrible newness they would add.

Life is an infinite sided die,
containing within it dice to reign
over all the realms of being me.
But every single throw shows up ones –
I am used to this – may it go on.
Between searching for the dull boulder
and pushing the damn thing up the hill
I think I may have got things just right.
I’ve learned to love it. Let it not change.

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