There is no reason

to attach oneself so much

to the present

August has just begun,

but it's just as natural

with late November's whipping snow

over the marsh;

cheeks blasted with grain snow

- and eventually the kittens' witchcraft

high up in the air over slippery wooden floors

transitioning into the heavy, drowsy doze

of two grown cats

in the lap

or on favorite spots in the house

The present is as unreal

as it is real;

every imagined minimal point in the flow of time untrue, unreal,

but the flow of unrealities is a wave of truth

that is constantly reinterpreted and reshaped

Cats become fragile, worn out, and dead,

to be buried in the yard soil,

and we ourselves end when we least expect it,

or on an expected - and finally arrived - date of death;

personality objectified

and entrusted to anyone and everyone’s

arbitrary will,

or ample forgetfulness

The present is just a slurred reflection

from an indefinite place in space-time

There is no reason

God is a somnambulist blindly moving between star clusters

with humanity's collective genome

in a thimble