There are but minutes now,
minutes in motion on metros, 
minutes moving in on me,
on my identity 
on my mark, on my leaning,
on my meaning, 
meaning I am moveable
like a feast, as he said,
A Moveable Feast,
meaning I am manageable 
malleable,
maybe unremarkable, mistakable.

There are but minutes now, 
minutes moving in
on my metamorphosis,
on my undoing,
on my unbecoming,
is it unbecoming? 
on my being misunderstood, 
misinterpreted, misrepresented, 
missing.

I am famished,
the feast has moved,           on
mindless to the matters
that manipulate me
mould me
remodel me.

Minutes, there are but minutes
multiplying on metros moving,
on me, in motion

minutes making minutes minus minutes.

All Words and Photographs by Damien B. Donnelly

Photograph taken in the Arts et Métiers Metro Station, Paris, France.