Why we are here
Most illogical about just stuff is movement, opening
leaves, the body anchored in the earth without any
prospect of relocating, turning with the sun,
getting free from the soil, falling out of an embrace,
without realising you are alive but quivering with will
making tracks, running to the end of hunger.
For this is what happened: We stood nailed to the ground
when the walls disintegrated, the decay began, turned
our faces to the sun, waiting in queues for water
until the first ones died. Weeping, the neighbours left.
I did not want to leave the spot where the children lay.
You said: life is being able to move, you’re not some thing.