The dense moments:
A perched and waiting infinity
like the slow approach
Of a December storm.
This will give way
To clusters of days
Grouping themselves into months and
somewhere listed in years and futility.
Some of these more relevant than others.
All this in hindsight, of course.
But all of them eventually get listed equally
Despite their distance from now,
And the patterns to deceive.
Maybe all these places and spaces are appropriately
Filed as leaves falling from trees,
As they play the light floating down,
Ghostly ballerinas of the wooded air.
Each one it’s own scratchy day
Wringing the counting out of us,
Collecting in the patches of light
Back at the office,
all this started during the pragmatic era,
Which preceded the declining epoch,
Where the rusted pot of drought
Boiled dry, until the metal turned glowing blue
And this time of light appeared as some
Enthralled and enthused,
Ready to shake, but still too worn and stiff
To let fall the remaining leaves.