Twelve dollars sixty cents,
& the fact that there is no blood no storm
can’ t wash into dirt, that the time for these words
is already ended,
that for all the rain that has been here before
so have I.
& there is less water in the world
than a famous woman once said, & I know that,
& that the stars in the river
also are real I also know, for they disappear also
& refuse also to be touched. & I have touched
bare things, & it works —
it can be the sole unbraided moment in a life —
but even so, what better days look like to me is still
the tiny gore
of heartbreak, & long walks with small shoes
that can’ t be taken off,
& schools in a city I love that put molded cages
over their clocks,
because that works too to remind us
we are not ready. & the worst of all is anything that
stays as it is
when touched.
At lunchtime a woman famous for her ability
to praise the ineffable
says she can’ t believe anyone returns
to where they came from.
But of course they do. In fact
some do nothing else. & what is it they leave behind?
Perhaps not the meaning of time,
but the time of meaning, & the fact that whatever
happens, tomorrow
will change it.