is Present

Things move,
and are moved
by hands other
than my own.
Propped against the station
bench I imagine I am a pair
of tights emptied
of their legs. Slackly
I sit and remember
the form of something once
held; try to catch
my mind as I am carried
downstream.

A plastic bag blooms
from the wire bin in the corner.
Empty it rises white
and flowers with a sound like
static. The wind speaks,
I think, and step
into the static. Caught
in a pocket, like a
moment swollen before
thunder, I forget everything and shift
to my fingertips. Exist in the rise
and the fall of the bin bag as it
breathes to me.