It is summer 2013 and I am
sitting in the back yard. The sun
is setting and the wind which was
born somewhere between
the compost and the roses rises like
those airplanes I hear departing
or arriving at the nearby airport.
Time flows from four to six, though
I wonder if time is a river and time
is our memory — how do we find
ourselves in this flow of event particulates?
How do we separate the whole exerting
stresses on the package and how do we know
if what is sheared along belongs
or is just a rain of red herrings and fog
and if the river which we think we navigate
like modern day Huck Finns is navigating us.
sitting in the back yard. The sun
is setting and the wind which was
born somewhere between
the compost and the roses rises like
those airplanes I hear departing
or arriving at the nearby airport.
Time flows from four to six, though
I wonder if time is a river and time
is our memory — how do we find
ourselves in this flow of event particulates?
How do we separate the whole exerting
stresses on the package and how do we know
if what is sheared along belongs
or is just a rain of red herrings and fog
and if the river which we think we navigate
like modern day Huck Finns is navigating us.
