“Excuse my not/ waiting as others do/ to be.” ~ D. Bonta

Every clock in the house shaves off
too little or too much, but none

arrives at consensus as to the nature
of what winds around and around itself

like a maypole. I walk to the river
to investigate abandoned shells,

dry pods, serifs drawn by the feet
of wading birds: they’re never afraid,

no matter how many times they step
into the river’s text.


In response to Via Negativa: Carpe diem.

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