they flash past
like cyclists through
red lights with or without
consequence is there a need
to hurry is there an agenda
as they wait for particle
rearrangement, reassignment
another incarnation; do they
get impatient or is this messing
around merely spirit at play, a
version of ‘being’ italicised; are
the dead on the look out for
groceries, hungry as they visit
dreams footpaths crevices
vestibules auditory canals, beings
we recognise, or don’t; what
fills the space between the ‘be’
and the ‘ing’, what would coleridge
have to say in his lime-tree bower;
you surprised me deep in slumber
under the snowy doona, your
emerald dress like a sudden
summer –