Body waited. Self grew anxious. Mind was
Busy stuffing itself on novels, memoirs,
Histories, poems, a book about Big Data,
You name it. Awareness, that helpless moth,
Flittered between the three of them and then
Escaped out the window to the continuous
Creek. Continuity, continuity, ever roaring
With changes, how impossible, and now
It was mind's turn to be anxious, to let
Its anxiety trickle down through poor, patient
Aching body. Self was forgotten by self.
Awareness settled on the tips of the waves,
So similar to the continually vanishing wisps
Of pale spray it could have been one, it was
One. Mind labored like the rusty, imported
Hodgepodge of clanking cultural machinery
It was. The water did not stop falling.
The sound of all that changing matter
Barely changed at all. It was stuck, it was
Stuck, mind was. The roar of differences,
The roar of discontinuity was continuous.
Nothing could pause the cleaving that left
In every least instant, itself. Mind trembled.
Awareness flitted back to self, who took
No comfort, knowing nothing belonged
To those two, that only mind and body, once
Divided in their own downrushing stream,
Would, each in a separate way, go on.
Something, something else must evaporate
For discontinuity to happen continuously.
I and awareness, thought self, we leave.
Our leaving makes this paradox possible.
But self could not self comfort. Awareness
Moved on again, noticing the shifting time.
The world must have a hole to drain change,
A hole that change can drain through, a way
To palm the coin of spacetime, thought mind.
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