sounding the beats

[xmachinax]

On my ten minute break
I drag the chair to the window so i can read in the light,
look past the bleach bottle on the sill and through the smudged glass
At the tree across the street, splitting the humble sunlight
into small, irregular pieces;
holy, as trees are, with the air of being made

shapeless yellow day, i cast my poem into you
once you were the unimaginable future
and when the last one who saw you is dead
then you are lost without hope in the river of time
(though pegged, by some dark hook, on history's line)

I will not be the one: I am twenty-two already
And many sand grain days have passed unnoticed through the pinch in me.