it molds at a point of Now
-past present future-
turns into a ball made of Everything.
it plays in his hands as if playing handball–
without hands.

ball slides on top of her skin
counting tissue by tissue
looking for cracks in it.

something he saw.

words are pointless
touch is pointless
yet he speaks,
yet he touches,
yet he gives meaning where meaning lacks.

to reach a thing he never reached before.
yes, that’s it.
she has what he wants,

the ball stands in the air, static,
as the sun keeps moving behind the leaves
in the phone, clock shows:
minutes that were here a moment before,
are no longer here.

he knows this. he can sense it.
someone is lying.
Earth that keeps on revolving,
the foolish human consciousness,


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