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Drafts, Poetry

We Were All Left Behind

Pointing to the large clock on the wall:

“The second hand does not regress,” he said, bumbling
over his words. “We cannot march back time
as much as we can flood the sea because the sea
is always the sea.”

The hands on the clock just stopped.

It is difficult to await rapture when you can’t see
the time. I step back from my conversation, spread
my eyes across the cheerfully fearful room. Most
of those here are speaking in hushed tones

as if the words they utter are both important
and useless. In a way, they are both: the small
reminder that this world will end, eventually.

That we are judged and we judge others.
That we are finite.
That we are infinite.

That the clock stops.
That the heart stops.
That the heart longs and twists.
That peace of heart is never impossible.

That peace of heart is never possible.
That we are finite.
That time is our making.
That time is our unmaking.
That we no longer wear wristwatches.
That we no longer stare into sundials.

That here there is something physical. A presence between
the spaces between us. I am a guest, they
are here because they are here. It is that simple.

The time came and went, but no one knew. As the sun set
over this old New England farmhouse I wonder
at the audacity of claiming anything as true.

Because at the end of the day we are here.
And this world is ending each moment.
And we are always saved and damned forever
and forever. We need no map. No rule of encounter.
We are, and ever will be, forward.



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