Stuff

I have too much stuff
In and on
House and mind
Overwhelming, underwhelming

I am hunting
I am gathering
From a mistranslated list
A million years old 

There is always too much
Reality being
Data not realised 
All simplicity a mindful act

We do not get flustered
At the radio waves
Or the ultraviolet
Or the cells, ours and alien

We do not get flustered
At the past not remembered
At the voices unheard
At the murmurations underfoot 

We cannot choose
What sticks in 
There is no driver
Just an ever-turning wheel