Poem 57

upon realizing it might have only taken the lesser half of an hour…

If time is your master, I would bottle him up like a puffer among seaweed to
watch him bloat his gills, and once tiresome, recede as hydrants often do.

If time is the price of passion, I might hoard away the barrels mingling of
grape-seed and oak exchanging them only for the moment best articulated

of love. If time is your current I would sail away with a hanker-chief wrist
wrapped toward the headwind and hope secretly for gail-less sails. For give me;

if time is the better man of us both then let him survive this middle-land betwixt
honor and malice where one word means a lifetime of mumbling truth. If time

could swallow up all these breezing bitter words–whipping the lobes of our ears
then let it gulp too the bitter still on my reluctant tongue. You decided again… but

if time is what I ask of you in the be-silent still of night. Then in the very least, look
to your heart and lend me that minute you’ve been saving in your pocket.

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