If the secret
answer to every riddle
is time,
I'd take a pass
on action,
and just as soon sit and wait
around
for the
gift of pure vision—I'd coolly
bear that slow, inevitable
oxidation of
bones and fickle muscle tissue
while imagination swirls
and rises, flooding past
un-grasped,
while shredded crowds of hours
rush down, dissolve, and leech out
the bottom of the noumenal
world like raindrops
soaking through parched clumps
of graveyard dirt—I'd willingly bear it
for the time to sit
and write a poem, or not to,
but whose
last perfect line
typed
on the page when I do
will typically go—
"as always, I remained pretty
noncommittal."
