Still Point

by Seth Jani

Morning. Nothing really.
The clock with its endless precision.
The movement of wind.
A barrage of leaves at the window.
I tap the cup until the coffee stirs,
Tense my nerves until the blood starts up.
The only gesture here is the one that beckons
To no one.
The only music, the kind
We cannot play.
Mitochondria dance, though we will not
See it.
The earth spins, though who would know?
The bird that is my body
Does not flutter or beat.
The stone that is my soul
Does not blossom or budge.