My job remains in the thing as it is the moment before it's me

My job remains in the thinking as it is the moment before it becomes
My job
remains in the moment, before me, thinking. In the moment. My work/my word/my work/my word, wider as it is a worry left behind from wisdom and him, before me, reasons having to do with regions, of the slant/mind, limping in the planet which is limp with becoming the beauty of its damages. Fickle fractal orbit. In a final chance to look at it, observe how you'd have to actually become the thing, and the looking in order to keep living anywhere, you had to give up on yourself, give yourself up the moment before it becomes you and treat each loose return like a root thought hovering over the loss of itself until it shatters, of lightness, of leniency, of bosses who made you sick, of thoughtsickness, of the felons I can love when I am your mind. An effortless. It does not matter what the future proves you are doing and to misbelieve in spring on purpose in order to provoke it to be the thing I am thinking