~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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