heft

it was a choice,
i knew this.
my own doing,
ever undoing.
myself the commas
heaving us onward,
teaspoons paddling 
us only ever into 
ongoingness.
herding us towards
a future as unmarked
as whatever present
we're harassing now
with our repetitive movements,
these lifeless hand gestures.
to think our bodies
were built for marathons
and we barely take the 
stairs.