Weighing

The weight of the world hangs on small things, like a second
That matters, shouldering itself into the present long after it has passed. Or
The way little shadows mutter under each roof tile to wait out the sun.
The way blinking might be more significant at one time than another, or
A treeline might have tufts in it–
Insisting on being sawtoothed to prove that it’s not all one thing.
The way a flame can’t sit still; the way a c(h)ord could be a rope or
A stack of notes and the way an egg feels like a stone in the hand. And yet,
Not everything must be handled
To be real.