The Festival of Almost Getting There

At the festival of almost getting there Zeno pokes his head out halfway, asks directions, half-heartedly, to the train, admits he’s been riding on the tortoise, been running after arrows to watch them stand still. He understands course, path, way, even relative position (dichotomize, divide) but motion’s still a figment: distance halved and halved (split infinity, twin trajectory) the long, long way, and all that longing (two-fold, doubled) (moments, instants, continuous or discrete) for some unfamiliar end—such unforgiving progress, portioned, yes, bisected. A half-assed effort? No, he’s as good as got it. So much struggle and amends. Sure, we’re goddamned tired of this much waiting, but look! He’s halfway there.