“Excuse my not/ waiting as others do/ to be.” ~ D. Bonta
Every clock in the house shaves off
too little or too much, but none
arrives at consensus as to the nature
of what winds around and around itself
like a maypole. I walk to the river
to investigate abandoned shells,
dry pods, serifs drawn by the feet
of wading birds: they’re never afraid,
no matter how many times they step
into the river’s text.
In response to Via Negativa: Carpe diem.