Time is in the oven, baking –
batter of particles of small events –
so many hands on table-tops,
so many smiles quivering on interpretation,
so mixed intents and missing relevants.

Time is on the counter-top cooling,
the way the deck will as the last sun ray
erodes in the lilac bush and crickets
sound the all clear for night – all clear
for the moon to appear.

Time is being consumed with
a ravenous appetite for such delicate fare –
without napkins, without spoons, time
disappears from the plate at our feet
and we have a whispered conversation

in the vibrato tones of funeral homes.