There are traces: lines, points
in the surface of reality,
in the space of unreality

– involuntary signs
with no significance
beyond that which we grant them
under the coercion of our eyes,
under the tripping yield
of our fingertips
longterm,
in the springtail-jerks of our muscles
through MS and ALS,
and in the gazes
of James Webb
and Nancy Grace Roman
from their equilibrium
at Lagrange Point L2

– but my future is decorpsed,
my prepast a truth
finding its way forward
from a before preceding
the first microbe;
a movement, an eternal mycelium;
a property at the bottom
of space and time

I wear no wristwatch;
stare into the koan of my wrist,
feel a haiku itch,
temporarily undeclared dead,
entirely springboarded;
the AI-agents' Folke Lavetti