The mental events were never clearly explained.
Or maybe it's exemplified in the silence of flowers.
We were never screened,
We were never told that we would
Be required to feel.
The sets of events individuating our lives
Were never integrated with
Our meanings and our desires.
There is no lunch break;
But it's all break:
There is no list of things to do,
No one to make sure we
Get it all done,
There is no after hours--
There are clocks, but there are no shifts;
There are long empty drives,
But there is no going home.
And no carpools.

When it decided to crack, expand,
Exemplify itself, absolutely
Infinite, maximally inhering in every moment
Forging presentness,
And quiet in all its mystery and being:
Without reason, without meaning,
Without destination.
We are its observers and followers, working the gears
Of a plant that produces and reproduces
Only our selfish ideologies,
And eulogies.
Every star is but one momentary thought
In its meandering mind,