One form of time is an invention that wants to lead the darkness on a halter, that wants to slow its steps as it approaches the door of the stable. Or it is a sail that the men on the beach fold into a triangle or a square, squinting at the last scattering of light on water. The smell of grass clings to our hands. A dark plume traces ink stains across the sky. We can still hear wings even as light falls. I too don't want to carry such sadness much longer. I want it to fall into the deepest part of the sea.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
