in the fullness
of time;
now,
they happen in
spite of it.
Just like
how
things
used to happen
to us—
or at least seem
to come between us
in some
two dimensional space—
but now, they all
take place
inside.
Forever, Dickinson says,
is composed
of those nows,
as the months
blur together,
and the decades
don't discriminate.
And she's
probably right:
our celebrated days
and our follies,
all laid
flat on time's line
cannot slide
around.
But the inverse
of worse isn't
better;
it's "easier."
And the best cure
for distance
isn't closeness;
it's height.
