Imagine the width of forgiveness that subsists in the breath of the world, for beauty continues to exist even when we don’t deserve it.

(I want to do something to deserve it)

Tick
Can you hear the time?
                                                As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
                                                history drones on in the background. She
                                                wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
                                                eyes chase the clock around the bend.
Tock
It passes by.
                                               The clacking and clambering of high heels
                                                on pavement announce the haste in her
                                                heart. Five more minutes – just five more
                                               minutes – until her life tumbles before it
                                               begins. Time drips down her spine; it sends
                                               a shiver back up it. Coffee drips down her
                                               arm.
Tick
It never stops.
                                               His time is measured in meters and dashes.
                                               He runs circles to get to the end. While he
                                               races the runners, he races the time, trying
                                               to beat counting at its own game.
Tock
Why won’t it stop?
                                              A mother jolts awake to the sound of wails.
                                              “2:38am.” Dragging her body out of a
                                              cloud, she wishes for time to sleep through
                                              the night. She wishes for time long gone.
Tick
What if it stops?
                                              The power goes out in a storm overnight,
                                              and the clocks begin to flash. A father
                                              meanders through the house that night to
                                              mend each blinking beacon before his kids
                                              awaken, suspended in time.
Tock
Please don’t stop.
                                             With these people concerned about time,
                                             you probably glanced down at your watch.
                                             Do you have enough time to make it to the
                                             next meaningless task?
Tick
How much is left?
                                             How do you feel about killing time? We’re
                                             going to die, and we’re running out of time.
                                             Yet, as time murders you, you ****** time.
Tock
What time is it?
                                            The world goes on, and it will happen again.
Tick
Once at the beginning.
                                             As her pencil – tap, tap, taps – on the desk,
                                              history drones on in the background. She
                                              wishes for time to wisp itself away, as her
                                              eyes race the clock around the bend.
Tock
Can you hear the end?

Tick
Can you hear the time?
Tock
It passes by.
Tick
It never stops.
Tock
Why won’t it stop?
Tick
What if it stops?
Tock
Please don’t stop.
Tick
What time is it?
Tock
How much is left?
Tick
Once at the beginning.
Tock
Can you hear the end?

TickTockTickTockTickTock...

When the sirens come on,
don’t remain above ground.

Your dad will probably stay and watch. He
keeps the front door wide open. He invites
those gathering winds for a nightcap.

You must
befriend the lonely
creaks as you descend.

(If you don’t have a basement,
just get as low as you can.
Lie down in a ditch.
Crawl into something concrete.
Hit rock bottom.
Drop to the floor. Anything
is better than a grave.)

You’ll want to turn on the TV,
or a radio,
or your intuition.

If it gets too bad,
or if dad never comes down,
or if the wind decides to stay for dessert,
curl up just as you did
when you wandered into this world
on your hands and knees, with the back
of your heels on your ****, forehead
to the ground, and cover your head
with your hands. Almost
like you’re praying.

Touch is always a reciprocal transaction. Both our hands feel the electricity surge when the initial contact occurs. From there, our senses merge, and it’s impossible to tell where I end and you begin.

Touch me.
...
Or am I touching you?

Writing wages war on the monsters inside me.
I pierce them with my pen and lay them down to die.

Novel coronavirus.
Travelers in motion.
Spewing the virus.

One fervent hope
in danger of being dashed.
Undocumented carriers.
86% of all infections.
These people are the major drivers.
The ones who facilitated the spread.

Unseen transmission.
Unseen spread.
Much harder to stomp.

The longer the period of silent viral shedding,
the more difficult it is to control the outbreak.

Containment is nearly not possible.

That poor little painter fellow
was a strange man.

Vincent was his name.

He never asked for mine.
He called me darling.
He called all the nurses darling.
He called the walls darling, too.

He came to us in the springtime.
He didn’t talk much,
but his paintings were quite odd.
They swirled like the world
on three glasses of wine.
They made me reach for my glasses,
search for a chair, and chug a cup of coffee.
When I looked at his work, I felt
too much like I used to feel with Charles.
When I had one too many,
and he walked me home.
We walked for three miles. I was
happy, but he left.

On Vincent’s last night, he sat
at the barred window in his room.
I came up to him, smiled, and said,
"Wow, what a starry night,"
and he just stared.

I don’t know if he was looking
at the light in the stars
or the black in the sky.

If you think too hard about anything, you’ll lose touch with everything. If you don’t think hard enough, you’ll never touch anything at all.

How serene it is to smile and actually see the reasons why.

Sometimes an anchor double-knots itself around my soul, and it refuses to let go. It drags me down to the bottom of the sea, making me forget I ever knew how to float.

Poetry courses through my veins, but it only escapes when I make myself bleed.

Distance can't dull your shine, honey.
You were made for the stars.