I look back and see time,
soft and folded to keep out the creases
made of cotton's constant bending,
it flows and turns magenta
just as the sun moves
and caresses the hard line of night.
Sometimes I feel I need to hurry,
to lap up truth
and with a hammer make dents
in the fabric that covers
the texture of life.
Tools, not weapons,
that I can make myself,
(I tell time's long face as it ticks in my ear)
made out of the swift current of my breath
from the boat of my hands,
not a scream tethering the spirit
to the whipping ball of some miraculous power
I know is heard even by the jellyfish
as they dance to the tides,
down in that place called,
More Than I Know.
Time remakes itself when we think it grows
and ages and groans and cries,
instead it is brand new and waiting
for someone to acknowledge
that it isn't very important, after all.