There is no reason
to attach oneself so much
to the present

August has just begun,
but it's just as natural
with late November's whipping snow
over the marsh;
cheeks blasted with grain snow
- and eventually the kittens' witchcraft
high up in the air over slippery wooden floors
transitioning into the heavy, drowsy doze
of two grown cats
in the lap
or on favorite spots in the house

The present is as unreal
as it is real;
every imagined minimal point in the flow of time untrue, unreal,
but the flow of unrealities is a wave of truth
that is constantly reinterpreted and reshaped

Cats become fragile, worn out, and dead,
to be buried in the yard soil,
and we ourselves end when we least expect it,
or on an expected - and finally arrived - date of death;
personality objectified
and entrusted to anyone and everyone’s
arbitrary will,
or ample forgetfulness

The present is just a slurred reflection
from an indefinite place in space-time

There is no reason

God is a somnambulist
blindly moving between star clusters
with humanity's collective genome
in a thimble