Count it all you want to;
it'll never
add up to anything—
time
isn't here
to satisfy;
time
is not flattering.
If anything,
time is this
super-sheer
spool of organza—
which
we cut up
and make into
tasteless, in-
decorous
clothes and handbags—
then walk
(and watch others
walk) around in,
pretending we all look fine—
pretending
to conceal stuff,
pretending—
they fit.
