Phenomenology of time as catalogue

On the walk, a patch of green,
a slip of bloom which someone
has tagged: “Bashful.”

*

I try to walk fast, believing
that way, I might gain space
to catch up with myself.

*

Slub of hand-dyed yarns, colors
other than the dark and blue of ink:
I’ll plunge my hands into their stain.

*

How much more of our history
do we need to rescue? Between the owl
and the dogwood, we don’t get to decide.

*

In the evenings, the heat
is a faceted glass from which,
gratefully, we’ll drink to sleep.

*

Coming across the word outhouse,
sometimes I imagine these rooms walking
outside without us just to sit in moonlight.

Leave a Reply