Monday, December 16, 2013

TEMPUS FUGIT

Time could be just 
those first 
three-or-so minutes—when it's still 

okay to be wonderful-
ly feckless 
and prostrate—before another 8:10 a.m. parade

of work-a-day sensations 
comes reckless-
ly traipsing our way;

when I feel so slightly 
permitted 
to yawn and to

say, so sticky—I had 
this dream, 
and you were in it;

and then,
to struggle recounting such 
harrowing nonsense

as infinities 
of our strict 
syntax can't manage—and then

to just think—what a glad
relief it can be
to lay that drooping burden back 

down—easy in our warm
brown 
mattress on the ground 

before we raise—
on the count 
of three—the rest (or should

I say: slight 
majorities?) of us—to finally get 
up and start

flying apart—

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