We are bound
taut and resting in an hour
not known to be dawn or dusk,
unable to move towards or away
from the light,
uncertain.

 

And we are secure
in this fog of, perhaps, our own
manufacture by rocking on ripples,
neither headed nor nestled
but blank, empty,
frozen.

 

We are not afraid
and we are not sure,
but bought of inaction,
hoping that by staying
we are safer
than by determining the hour.

 

Our choice of risk
lets the light pass
lets shadows control
let the instinct
of uncertainty lash us
to being instead of becoming.