of time flowing past them, through them, slipping by,
or do they cradle and bless like a riverbed?
I have asked them, held in my hand
like branched nests whose natural progress is startled
by my rude curiosity.
You--are you a kind of clock?
At times you define me to myself, but in the next moment
one of us has moved on, like pouched time, a hoarded secret.
I wonder--shall I join these resentful clocks,
ticking off quantified complaints ad infinitum?
Or is it better that I dissolve, like the sugar of a moment
In a hot mug that warms my hands, but only in this instant?
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