there is no Noah-gene abounding of me
no spin of the wheel offering another lifespan allowance equal to what you’ve long since spent
in silence, find truth
there is no infinite number of star-filled skies
no take-backs or do-overs, despite my shouts of forgiveness and this miracle heart transplant
in truth, find silence
Do you, as I, daily perform an unending juggling act with the hours, grasping at fleeting minutes, feeling, by sundown, famished for time?
Who of us doesn’t wish to artfully turn the wretched clock into origami art that would sit silent and still on the wall and evidence beauty instead of lack?
Were it possible, I would wave my surely magic arms, and weave into the moments a stop gate, then take eternity to tell you, thank you, you were right, and I love you.
If I told you take your sweet time
The remains of my lifetime
I said it through believing eyes
Promising any number of hours
I’ll just be over here on a shelf
Having a cigarette
Well, you know me
Always the optimist
The daydreamer with you
My sheer will ran dry
Three months and I did the math
There’ve been three lies
There’ve been three strikes
I know what I want
Should I first ask to depose the light?
Let it chase me round and round
Me — play hard to get?
But at this point in human history
For what purpose?
With time unubiquitous
If not now, when?
With stars and firmament acting finite
To what end?