Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
9th and 2nd
October 24, 2006
I’m alive you say
to no one in particular.
You are no one in particular.
That’s a good thing. The street is filled with souls
nested in good-looking bodies
that aren’t looking
in your direction. Someone is singing,
someone’s holding hands
with someone who is embarrassed by affection,
men and women made of light
drink in light
made of men and women.
They are alive you say,
meaning no one in particular.
One of them is singing, one is selling flowers,
one is so thin
you can almost see through her. One is looking
in your direction.
I’m alive you say, a little embarrassed
to be no one in particular, a soul
nested in a body
of men and women.
Someone is singing, someone is drinking
tea that is sweet and bitter.
It’s a good thing you say,
drinking in the light
of men and women,
men and women made of light, nested
in the sweet and bitter. A soul
is singing in your direction, so alive
you can almost see her.