AND ON THIS DAY

so he’s writing again
so he’s been taking inventory

of the things that come
before night and such

 

of moments, collected--

the last time, the first time,
the rails and the bodies,

errant yelling with 

dissonance, distance.
 

there’s something measurable
about time--            sure,

always quantifiable
 

but the practicality of a graduated cylinder
suits him well, something about parallels
and lines        . . .       and I am making this up
 
because quietude has no name,
only a few inhabitants at dawn/dusk/days
 
because quietude is the smell of dust
without presence of age or adage
 
because it’s easier to say something

than to do anything,

why bother?                      trains

can’t

pause,

pressing

play

when I

feel

like it
 

might be worth its weight in salt

to put my hands to work.

 

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