~notes on the spanse of time

*

evening dims

and diminishes

as morning must

to a ripening fternoon

*

stilled above the stretching field

its tips of dancing wheat

a softened sun pauses

at the brink of a hard horizon
until night becomes itself

*

eleven minutes after eleven hours

the clockhands point mockingly
a ticking insinuation there is nothing

worth a wish
the chance of poetry

and such things

*

a reminiscent fog hangs on

mutes the abbreviated hours
chill chalks the landscape

like a quiet room
a shameless sliver of moon takes back

its indelible darkness

*

if tomorrow remains uncreated

and time forgets its blueprint
must we measure beginnings by

the anticipation of breathing?

*

in the season of dying

the locusts came

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