On a winter night,
Sky as bright as the moons open mouth,
We wander aimlessly
In our slick, metal time machines,
The vacant roads of this world
Branching out, swift as tentacles
That pull us into so many different lives.
We are young, our dreams shiny.
We borrow them from each other,
Stuff them into forgotten pockets,
Arrange them across mantels
And the boxed-in tops of walls
Like golden, amalgam bricks of mercury,
Barely blemished by the hands of humans.
On a spinning dew drop,
Between two separate centuries,
We walk the fenced-in grid of Zodiacs stars,
Never knowing the backward ritual
In all our ways of life;
The there and back motion
Of everything becoming and diminishing.
The time lapse between
Beginning and merely dreaming,
We balance our checkbook,
Take out the trash,
Cheat at mindless games of solitaire
As if time was an expenditure,
As if the blood of our clay bodies
Will beat endlessly,
As if the wind between our hair
Were not a magician playing time tricks.
We walk this earth as if
there were gravels glued to our foot soles,
taking and shoving and regretting,
then returning to the morning role call
of an endless losing game
as if the earth owed us something,
as if everything living
will one day die alongside us
while we go shouting into the glorious
blinking eyes of nothingness, and nevermore.