This Us. A poem by Joan Christie

Before this
us
quick pulsed, heaved & bulged
push-dragged, all at once
untessellated, arrhythmic
time-fighters we
torching in and out the blazing labyrinths
weave-running in our own flames
of unmade beds and missed lunchtimes
we everywhere and nowhere
a scattering of us
Flatline –
all our sofas hold us
sinking in Ikea patterns
our notebooks, clocks and fit-bits always charged
counting steps & baking bread – we hoard our sleep
under open airy windows
and creeping in, a birdsong
we never even asked for
from leafing trees under trackless skies
we breathe in another day
of us
become –
listeners of scholars
followers of news
our compass pointed
our steady sails mask the wind
we steer the giant wheel
to bends in an imminent exponential curve
one stream, slow pulsing through every vein
beating, beating on
for this
us –