Time.
What of it?
What of time that rips
helpless memories
away from the present air?
Can’t you see?
-that no matter how
we glamour time we lost
as “history”,
regardless of how we count
ancient hours
as great stories splattered
across books
-still,
none of it and none of it,
will ever belong to us again?
Time gives us photograph,
too dead in black and white,
and within the inches of its
tangibility rest
the bruises left by longing.

That is time.
That is what of it.