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.