We could throw away all the clocks
and move freely through time,
get ahead of our sufferings
and swerve round them,
circle back and laugh.
Impotent suffering.
Fool.
But wouldn’t we then, even then
carry inside what we’d lost
and know it
and die?
We could throw away all the clocks
and move freely through time,
get ahead of our sufferings
and swerve round them,
circle back and laugh.
Impotent suffering.
Fool.
But wouldn’t we then, even then
carry inside what we’d lost
and know it
and die?



There was the one of castaways on the island,
how he’d have not have had her
except for that island and his being the
alternative to no one –
and of his having been dumped by her
after “love” followed by rescue.
Then, too, there was the older man of money,
once handsome but now well past his prime –
and her,
and what won’t money buy if you’ve enough of it?
Well, except for actual love.
And so now I’m wondering about that kind,
and how love has gone,
and what that has to do
with what I’ve to say here.


What flares up, though, disappears,
the fire no more a fire than
the one blown by a boy’s
painted truck,
little men on ladders
now descending,
packing it in,
smiles all around

