after Ohran Pamuk
Everything just rushes by me now.
There are no longer the ritual pauses:
when I held a cigarette between *******,
I could hold Time itself.
I could pluck two stills
from the hurried film of my day –
one of what had just happened,
and the other of what might come next –
and I could stand, quietly alone
between those two frames,
holding time still in my hand,
and just look, and think, and smoke.
see the visual poem at
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJ795PG_v-0
Poetmonger
YouTube