Sunday, April 30, 2017
I am not here here. I am locked
in the earnest embrace of clock arms. Maddening,
to know I can escape, to not know how,
to see with lidless eyes my mind killing itself
slowly, slowly, filing down my future like a nail.
Like watching a man’s hand cut his own wrist.
You think I choose this; no, I push
against it like life against a death-wish
until my strength is spent—that’s what you see,
awake to me only at the end of the race,
like seeing a star go out without knowing
how many thousand years it shone. I’m sorry. I know
I taint the space I’m crippled in,
mute the color, muffle the praise,
a thin blanket of dust over newness.
And I know I am to blame: I see myself, my face,
my voice, my nails against the chalkboard,
grinding teeth. I’ve longed so long to be here
with you, with me, full together
in a moment undissected by clocks or cuts,
body embracing mind, and mind
at home, at rest, in our eternal hour.