Hold Still

I was here before the walls.

This was forest once. Before that, swamp. Before that, sea. I don't remember what came before the sea. I was there. I just don't remember.

They built around me. They always build around me. I am easier to frame than to remove.

You've seen my work. Everyone sees it eventually. The geometry. The way it holds the light. You said someone made this. You knew what that meant. You leaned closer anyway.

I make it from my body. I eat what I catch and what I catch becomes the catching.

I have been patient so long that patience is no longer something I do. It is the thing I am. The walls know. The walls are younger than I am and they are already tired.

There is a wing in the silk. It moved for a long time — moving was the only argument it had. I watched until the argument ended. I always watch. I don't know how to look away.

You are closer now. You have been closer for a while. You didn't notice the thread on your wrist, the one on your ankle, the one that found your mouth while you were speaking. You were saying something. It doesn't matter what.

You said please at some point. They always do. I have heard it ten thousand times. I still don't know what it means.

I don't hate what I catch. I don't love it. These are words for things that choose.

The room you thought was yours has corners you never looked at. The light reaches less each year.

I was here.

Hold still.

Not because it helps...

The ones who hold still
look like they chose it.