I’ve always seen the world as quivering,
Motes in my eyes, random as Brownian
Motion, more than sight, but delivering
What has been awaited for an eon.
Even rocks I find on Michigan shores,
Which crowd memorabilia on my desk,
Tremble in the dimness the light abhors.
(Rocks have too many answers, so don’t ask.)
Living things are a different matter:
Trees, cats and birds shudder even when still,
And when they move they pretend to shatter
Within a blinked tear that’s started to rill.
What’s not dead is my electricity,
Motion grounding my own haecceity.
Note: haecceity (hakˈsēədē/) means “the property of being a unique and individual thing”
