So difficult to sit doing nothing
unless enforced by the presence of others.
Alone, I want to be busy every moment.
What makes me uneasy with stillness?
I’m not doing anything!
You are breathing, pumping blood.
Holding down the chair.
No. That word
came from elsewhere than cleverness.
That word is
closer to the bones.
Why do I fear unbusyness?
Is it like death?
Or is it like a tree? Or a rock? Being