the condition of a moment

haphazardly hanging
on the last syllable
of a drawn out deposition,
without space
or time
to think,
bodies rush onwards-
though some may stay behind.

for a mere instant
it is the be
in being
that links us to gravity
and roots us
to the branches
of our longer times.

i have yet to understand
spontaneity.
though fighting
the one force
that does not bend
to the whims of political minds,
i now see
as stupidity.

everything has it's past,
but neither the desk chairs
nor the plastic furniture
resort to the reconstruction
of their ghostly elements.
they are your weight
upon your sitting,
and they are the air
upon your standing.
they are,
what I have trouble being.

momentary.