you feel it when the years start to pile on
your shoulders—that we weren’t meant to live
by time. to measure things
by our tiny bodies. to number stars
by our tiny gods. you feel it as you cut
into frantic seconds
and again as you stretch these seconds out into
you know that to keep time is to care for it
to hold it in yourself and hide it from strangers
as you find yourself turning over
the same acts, the same scenes
in your foggy hourglass mind:
here is the rhapsody (in cobalt blue),
and here are our faces framed in regret.
what is the sun but the minute hand
on the universe’s undisputed clock?
watch the time.
watch the features on its dark face twist in malice,
watch its hands spinning out lines of years while
I lie here still and
drowning in hungry amber
as you stride ever forward
in search of lost time