Ticktickticktick

For QKJ #7

 

I Do Not Understand

…the nature of Time. The beginning and the end
of a phrase come together in the moment of understanding.

If Time is a river, all oxbows and islands and swirling
agitation, wading through it ought to clean a soul.

The melancholy men and longing women Hopper painted
exist outside of time, and crystallize it. Time aches.

It is a menu, Time. The easy way is prix fixe. You pays,
and takes your chances. A la carte attention is so tedious.

There was not enough snow to cover the gangly grass. Sun–
and every blade is a sun dial. Cloud. Time is not its measurement.

 

 

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