Its Own Anarchy

There - caught in a dream-like sequence, aware 

but powerless to still portentous qualms a-flush; 

it is like seeing the past and future rushed into a 

single continuum - a seamless strand, stretched 

with such plasticity no seams are there to break 

monotony impending - no make-and-mends for 

visitation; else we’re on a rum-run somewhere if 

the take suggests any such event was credible 

Then we awake and yet th’ scene stays in place 

as indelibly as th’ feet follow a predestined path 

we cannot see, an habituation we’re held apace 

by or to, a way with its own anarchy; if it’s really 

there we’re on a path expressing its own lore, & 

the more we travel this way, the better we feel 

© 7 February 2018, I. D. Carswell