R O B E R T   O K A J J



Balancing the chair on two legs,

you claim no past,

and gravity,

though complicit in the future,

aligns itself with the mass.

No connections fuse the two.

Or, lying there, you bridge gaps,

clasping hands with distant cousins,

awake in the moment

yet ready to drift and continue,

a solitary seed awaiting nourishment,

steady, existing only between.







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