I. 2011

and time, serenely leering
falls around me
falls around
like fruit rolling
rotting slowly
like the limp hands of the sleeping
all the little deadweights dreaming
falls around me
falls around
all your hours and weeks and days
like I haven’t any of my own
or couldn’t touch them anyway

II. 2014

and time!
like a breech-presented foal’s neck in the birth canal,
it telescopes,
a gentle snap,
to fall dead in the hay and mother’s foam.
“I am the dawn,” it says,
“be grateful.
Few things come so willingly at your call.”

III. 2019

with time,
never let down;
time,
never cursed.
let the cloudburst do its worst this time—
leave your laundry on the line, your sodden sheets are racing silks and you are past the gate in time,
washed under the wire,
where the summit daily hides from you a new horizon’s fire, every time,
shake your hide off in the sunlight,
stretch your tendons on the rocks,
looking down the slope and peeling off your dirty socks,
while the songbirds echo forwards in Tiresian paradox,
it’s always time.