Monday, November 7, 2016


Little by little, all of our 
small supple hours 
will go leaping 

and whirling cocksure 
into heaps, which are, at first 
gently shaped into silent 

resilient days—but then
become compacted and glazed 
by the stiffening hands of discipline

into ruthlessly strong and 
stubborn vessels called decades—
until eventually,

even the slightest changes 
in temperature, moisture 
and atmospheric pressure

act as needles 
to breach their integrity, causing
every splendid old one of them 

to crumble 
into an indefensible waste 
of clipped shards and pieces.

But curiously, it's not the opposite, 
but the inverse 
of Time—a thing called Endurance,

which soldiers on quiet 
and selfless in the dark,
soothing each jagged corner

with its golden balm of tolerance
and gluing the fractures
back together in more resilient combinations.

But Endurance also bears its own signature,
an ultimatum—that any product 
born of such a reconciliation

shall never again posit the desire 
to be flawless; nor can it ever again 
aspire to resemble 

the same design
for which it was 
formerly celebrated—since it knows

the only vessels strong enough 
to withstand ongoing ravages, 
are those which bear the most proudly 

the thick cracks 
and fissures
of each former surrender.