Whenever I recalled my youth,
full of Dostoevsky, recreational carnality,
and conviction-laced twaddle,
all I could remember were the curtains
that granted me a sense of innocence.
But as time passes, I wonder: if I lived
up to my own past words, with age,
would doubts arise?
They call it the morning glory, but what’s glorious about it?
If anything, it’s just an inconvenience, like phantom pain
after you left. I guess, as with everything in life, that too
will go away with time, and, whilst drear, it might even feel
cathartic to finally find something beyond this dangling
personal pronoun of mine.
How long is forever? Wait, did I just wake up to ask this question, or did the question wake me up? All I know is that every time I open my eyes unexpectedly in the middle of the night, the time stretches on forever, although I’m not sure if this time it actually was about time. Anyway, I remember when I was a little boy, like a member of some primitive tribe whose numeral system was limited to one and many, “now” was the only tangible idea that I could understand. So “forever” was anything other than this instant. But I guess that’s something common for all children. With time, we all overcome this little shortcoming and forever move to a more abstract conceptual realm, unless, of course, we use it in some metaphorical way, as when we complain about having to wait forever for a loved one to call. There are also those who fetishize “forever” with their wet dreams about everlasting life, but they should be careful what they wish for; they just might get it. That would be nothing but the hell of paradise all over again.
When I look at the clock face, it strikes me
that there is not a minute in twenty-four hours
where it is the same day everywhere in the world.
What is more, the twenty-four hours themselves
happen only four times a year, and even that depends
on latitude. But if I were you, I would not worry
about it—unless you are an astronomer, of course.
Four seconds, give or take, make no difference
when you wait two hours to see the Mona Lisa,
just for a moment.
Facing the future, I tend to drift towards the bygone predicament of the here and now,
as if the past were all that should concern me, yet I obsessively control each and every
passing moment as though a pocket watch I stole from my great-grandfather and carry
everywhere could keep them alive for a little longer. Then I wish there was more time,
often when it is too late for a little sleight of hand—the last trionfi card is already dealt.
hidden pilcrow 