Time of Day

In the morning                  concrete
a confused seagull                           stray sunlight

lapsed sounds of night                  and
that music which

tactile is a tracery of potential
like words uttered           below the

heartbeats of hearing    with just emotion
to which to cling.

I could elevate the sun                  resuscitate
the minutes adrift like

Manatees, like spiders forever
spinning their webs.  I could

photograph  the arm time  leans in

                in a certain way

as though memory exists
and the future doesn’t      

predict         itself.