A day begun, with no aim,
no reason,
you may imagine, a thousand years from now;
but I may imagine,
may being my word now, at the time, as if
time comes in
countible bits,
points,
per haps.

Haps may be those countible bits of time.
Ticks, to a child's mind reared,
in the interim between springs and woundup
strings, when
toys and clocks, both, needed twisting and
tugging or pushes, gentle pressure to
push past the
release

of the power wound up in a spring,
the power of thing to return to its original,
first state, im-fected, perhaps,
with a self willing to be
as you were... alone and fine, feeling haps
as if each were mine,
and I'm happy, rich in little bits of time,
all mine, or so they were,
each still tied to me by some memory in a line,
a thousand years from now.