sometimes this
is how it goes:
although
you do not need
to know,
you look again
at the clock
on the wall
to confirm
that it wears the same face
of disfigurement
and genuine
torment it wore
just before; or,
perhaps because
you can't resist
you triple-
check the distance
between
derelict here and
unrealized there
and find
that its path appears
just as perilous,
uncivilized,
and austere as both
places put together.
And that's
when it hits you
right between the eyes
that the truth
of each moment
is so savage
and entire
that even if it
throttles you
to near-exhilaration,
you could never
mistake it for beautiful—
not even by the poetry-
in-motion
of a long shot.
