to you today: hacksaw, razor blades,
black tacks, a softbacked copy of Farewell
to Arms. When asked about forever
Kant wrote that men can talk of eternity
but what they know can only be found in time
and space. When photos of a Mars dawn
were sent back to a round of applause
on an evening news clip, I knew
suddenly that our turning world is only one
timepiece. After an argument I'd swing round
the ornate banister, heels pounding
down the stairs, keys ajangle in my shaking
hands. But you don't live by my clock:
the new moon sharpens
to a sliver, and I bleed only until
it burns a solid white half
through the sky. For you, a new glossy
cover model appears in your mailbox,
or an electric bill marks another month's
energy used. This morning you will find:
razors and tacks neatly boxed, your spare
key clipped to the inner lip
of your mailbox. I believe this is all
you can understand. When I pleaded
for any reaction, you would stand
anchored inside the ring of halogen light
on your rug, saying, Is this ever
going to stop?
appeared in Passages North