There is barely enough time
to read a poem,
as write one.
Barely enough time to take a breath,
to die,
to be born again,
and repeat the cycle,
wave on wave.
It is all we allow ourselves.
No time to think,
to be,
to watch the fossils accumulate,
shores being made,
the valleys being cut rock by rock,
granule by granule.
And what of your life?
Do you have barely enough time to be born?
To commit all your sins?
To find truth and choose to live?
Barely enough time to love,
let alone know loss,
and is it what you want?
What we want?
Is it the hand of forever
refusing to let you be?
To stop and say,
I am an eternal thought.
My heart composes eternal poems.
I commence dreams of eternal length,
not yet finishing the first
of an eternal number.
So what is it to be late?
Not have enough time,
fill my house with clocks
and deny everything its truth,
its need to be,
to go on without interruption,
including myself.