Day knocked on the dark door with a plan
to fill and be filled without considering how
long before the options clog up the branches
how quickly morn turns to brambly eve.
Scratch flatness into centered fullness
kick comfort and containment off the legs
in the dim run like an accomplice
says mother ugently to night, no more.
Said child to the man across the moat
no time is there here and never has been
said man to child palms covering the face
in our hands is clear proof of its passing.
Throats racing, children do not discuss
any parental or historical distractions
they loiter between birthdays retracing
fingers on the handles of drawers and doors.
Requires years to discover the inexorable
uncovering of the proclivity for one idea
to turn into theories as sundry as hungrily
entangled as a game of spaghetti.
Memory places handcuffs on time’s
youthful ankles to keep it from speed
and thoughtful wrists to keep it from slow
living out of the views of any another.
Who shall I be today until the dusk?
Whose time can be most trusted?
The babe walks not recalling not walking.
The grandfather falls down and cannot talk.
Have I been here long writing this verse?
Who wrote the one before or the first?
Grandmother, mother or first girlfriend?
Time shrunk now until they bend it.
My pharoah invitingly points to the fruit
my vizier sees in the act a plot
my scribe loads and unloads his palette
my slave lifts a pyramid on his shoulders.
The brook works hard at the same sound
in the hour after dusk as well as dawn
what does a brook know about the hard work
of the sun who makes the difference?