Time the pacifist
wears a black coat—
something torn from the back of old
disaster—rumpled with death
and the dust of lost civilizations—
the dust that never seems
to settle long
and time the lascivious
lecher preaches at each
crooked corner—sings
lullaby’s to dour clouds belched
from the throats of hope.

Time hangs out, time hangs out
with gypsy history
and they drink,
exchange strange stories concerning
the most recent uprising
of deluded ants.