The Starting of Time
When you find out the news it floods the
mind
In many paths and crevices
Of the mind. Like a water tap turned on
Having water pour out of it with no
hopes
Of stopping until the handle is turned
Back to the beginning.
Thoughts of the past also begin to creep
Into those crevices and paths.
What did we miss?
How can I make up for what I didn’t do?
Why did we never connect like the rest
of my family?
When will our time be up?
Soon the paths and crevices expand
beyond
The point of repair. Beyond the point of
ever
Returning back to their original state.
They say time heals all things but when
does time
Start? The hope of lasting life hangs
In the body for never knowing what
tomorrow brings.
__________________________________________________________
Poem of the Day:
The
Wires of the Night
I thought about his death for so many
hours,
tangled there in the wires of the
night,
that it came to have a body and
dimensions,
more than a voice shaking over the
telephone
or the black obituary boldface of
name and dates.
His death now had an entrance and an
exit,
doors and stairs,
windows and shutters which are the
motionless wings
of windows. His death had a head and
clothes,
the white shirt and baggy trousers of
death.
His death had pages, a dark leather
cover, an index,
and the print was too minuscule for
anyone to read.
His death had hinges and bolts that
were oiled
and locked,
had a loud motor, four tires, an
antenna that listened
to the wind, and a mirror in which
you could see the past.
His death had sockets and keys, it
had walls and beams.
It had a handle which you could not
hold and a floor
you could not lie down on in the
middle of the night.
In the freakish pink and gray of dawn
I took
his death to bed with me and his
death was my bed
and in every corner of the room it
hid from the light,
and then it was the light of day and
the next day
and all the days to follow, and it
moved into the future
like the sharp tip of a pen moving
across an empty page.
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