Movement

1.
The cup is filled to the brim with nothing,
While the TV screen, fatigued from endless
Rearragement, hums a silent sigh, rich now
With deafening black tones, the darkness of which
Could blind, disorientate, and drive to suicide

2.
Most things stay still, most or all of the time,
Inducing the self-same desire for no disturbance,
Bringing rivers of spring water to wintrily calm,
Holding flowers at gunpoint with dead air, and
Cutting up and arranging movement into neat paragraphs

3.
But I have always suspected that the minute I slapped the
Cover onto the rest of the textbook, the words within
Would spring to life with childish glee, as the splashes
From the landing of a weight in an untouched pond, then
Jump around, play sports and collapse from the frisson of the first relsease

4.
When the body stops, and helps itself to the
Buffet of sleep or the temporary peace and delight of
The moment when eyelids finally kiss, our souls start to squirm
Invisibly, like worms in the hard soil, demonstrating that, perhaps
The greatest distances are conquered frantically and from within.