I’m Always Being Told Time Isn’t Real

                     "...you/ must create a likeness of/
             the dark for dark/ to disappear." ~ Alice Fulton

Once we might have felt time
                    to be endless, but not endless-endless. 

For we've always known even such 
                    endlessness has limits, which is why a clock 

can have a second hand, a minute hand. 
                    The seconds clip around, miniature racehorses.  

The hours pull their slower weight across a smooth 
                    track which lights up under its crystal dome at night, 

at the press of a tiny button. Sitting next to you, our
                    shoulders touching, I can see out the window

how the early darkness makes a well into which the whole
                    yard falls: a world with its own history, a world 

that began for us even before the tree in the garden raised
                    a few last fruits to the sky like darkly leathered flags, 

refusing to surrender. In time, we say; or out of time, ahead of time,
                    one day at a time— always measuring how much we let it

have: how many silver distances burn in the cup of the porch light's
                    blinking beacon all night, how many moth bodies fade like aubades.

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