time
One of my greatest fears is that time will quit working right. It's no irrational fear, before it happened before and because all I can remember is a jumbled mess of fragments, disjointed limbs, whole expanses of time and space that skidded past, whole hours and days and stretches of floor worn into grooves. I like to think that I did everything I could, I time-stamped objects and ideas, I counted (but I always counted and forgot), I collected, I thanked the parts that tended to leave the fastest to try to win their hearts back, but still, time, it wasn't mine. Last night, beneath four blankets, I froze stiff and woke myself, panting. The dog wanted in and the door stuck, jammed as if it had forgotten it could open. It sure was cold out there. Something back there was skipping again.
It's nights like these that I think of those signatures, inextricably mine, scrawled naked and slowly leaking, on scratch paper in the old pickle jar in my woods, frozen in a degrading stump. I thought it was a paradise, but I guess even oases freezes over.
Perhaps it needs rescuing on a night like this.
It's nights like these that I think of those signatures, inextricably mine, scrawled naked and slowly leaking, on scratch paper in the old pickle jar in my woods, frozen in a degrading stump. I thought it was a paradise, but I guess even oases freezes over.
Perhaps it needs rescuing on a night like this.