Not the heart.
Not the fluttering lungs.
Not the ambulances in our arteries.
Not the blue sludge in veins.
Neither the Farads running to ground
Nor the factories of piss.
Not the inexorable rot of death
Or it’s playground slide to feigned entropy,
But that stuck pin of the lepidopterist’s Now.
The hum and flux of being.
Stasis moves in mysterious ways.
Stillness, a chimera.