Monday, 5 May 2014

30. Making Time

I forgot to make time. I sometimes
do. Dishes turn scabrous; floors lapse;
people traipse to and from the city
thick with need. Work beckons
its claw. I cannot forsake
these insistent children, so I let them
fill time. I think
these insistent children are
small-bellied bairns, but then
they open their maws. Time slithers
down gullets—seagulls ransack
the binbags—and I am standing in a city
strewn with junk. I give myself to
tasks and get swallowed; you can
see my silhouette in the snake. A throat
contracts—it is me or the snake, so
today I slit the belly and fuck
the tasks. I will gnaw a small cavern
in time and curl up. Take
my stick smudged with ash
and start the words on the walls.

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