October 23, 2012

Camo









In the dappled dark,
as the sun goes down,
I sense if I am still,
barely breathing in
and breathing out,
the world will not kill.
Spinning slowly round,
turning day into night,
summer into fall,
it's too busy to know
if I am here at all.
It mistakes my stillness
for something else
it thinks it knows by heart,
never learning
how being still
is itself a deadly art.

10/16/12