i keep seeing inches in time

little spaces

they linger

or jump

to connect larger space

making conversations

they fuse and bind through aggregate

inch of time after inch of time

then life is an allotment of inches

circumstances

formed by inches of temporal spans

a sigh

a snort

these are obvious culprits

red hand the inch is had who snorts

at a funeral

or sighs

at a wedding

but is it not more exciting

and even romantic

to exalt in the more muted inch of moments

a lingering hand

a slow withdrawal from embrace

how we pursue these tiny pieces

these fractions

the two by ones in lego we search for

at the bottom of the bag

blistering, chaffing, scratching our hands

for the glory of the smallest square which

makes a difference

not in use

but in wholeness

and we love wholeness

it is the pageantry of relative perfection

to have all the inches we can imagine

like the sequins comprising the the vestment of our sum of days

after all, we die in an inch of time

made whole regardless

Floors above. I see me in this nocturnal reflection. The cities bright night lights twinkle beyond the glass.  So benign in the day, but in the evening there I am clear as the image in a mirror.  I think of myself over the years, swiveling on an Aeron chair past the twilight hour, when the window comes alive. Watching myself age in that reflection, it is not enough.

he could build

a paper airplane

which when the wind was right

could settle on the air

like a confident gambler

rumor had it he got one to go fifty yards

the dogs would tire waiting for it to land.

a frayed edge of a toothbrush

or a rug

tell me i’m truly alive

in case i doubted which

i do

not want to be alone

i don’t

think so anyway

it wears on me

time

like my teeth

on brushes

or my feet

on rugs

i am being erased by

these moments

and i bristle, but this encourages

my erasure

the present cleansed of me

by time rubbing against me

and time recalled to shine again

as always

while i fray.

after plot

i reflect on ideas

i had

about us

you and i

we were going to do

something

we didn’t

i don’t

know what i thought

i don’t

think what i knew

but i believe

me

even if i lack the courage

to defend

us

i’ll understand later i assume

like finding the lost keys to a car

long sold

there is nothing to do

and besides

(without metaphor)

only the sun announces

its intentions

and does exactly that which it promises

i don’t.

cornerstoned as i round

a bend

in my years

marked by calendars and

lines

on the edges of my eyes

i arrive at a place in space

and time unfamiliar

i hear

the easy chatter of my

youth

back around the bend

but i can no longer

see it

not turned away

but turned around

a corner

in my years

less impressive but stronger

founded perhaps

not floating

cornerstoned

not cornered.

a dry river trickles across the landscape

30,000 feet below me

a tan line

worn into a brown valley

mere memories in the land

of a dry river that ran

There are two types of surrendering: surrender with and surrender without.  It is so hard to know which is the better path.  Without echoes courage, with whispers compassion.  Both demand acceptance, which is the hardest part.  But sometimes the struggle simply needs to end.

This isn’t automatic.  Like talking.  The words aren’t effortless.  Is it practice?  The permanence derails me, perhaps.  The notion that these words are launched irretrievably into “space”.  Once fired they wander like wind forever.  It’s daunting, because I care.  I care about what is permanent in the world.  The indelible is the only thing that matters in the end.