I didnt write any of it

I didnt write any of it. I didnt name any of them. There are things coming from outside of me, swirling into my day and night, and propping me up, and coaxing me forward. Without me, what would I need with the apartment or the ocean. Those things and places just seem to make me happen. Against their eternal stillness I know that I am not still or endless. But I dont want to take anything from them. Those vaster fields which allow all of this to happen are just contexts. They set things up in a chain that leads back to me, from sea to cloud to sidewalk to pipe to tea kettle. But those bigger bodies that make this day of mine dont comment or shape; they are silent. The silence is disorienting, it is incomparable, but it isnt new anymore. Her name is not among the displayed. I have looked for it. I think she is too new. Or she just isnt. Something that cant find a place, jostled between where I am and where the ocean always will be isnt named. It will never be fixed, it doesnt leave prints in the dust. I cant constrain it.