25 April 2010

a poem by G. Kay Bishop

21 articles of clothing unfolded from Time's suitcase

Time is a tunnel collapsing at your back.
Time is a wind that blows only one way.
Time is a music for sedately waltzing worlds.
Time is a fire that burns longer than the stars.
Time is a rhythm of three pairs of hands.
Time is a compulsion, an imperative of eyes.
Time is a breath that you never breathe again.
Time is a roundish waveform of possible events
which flattens into history like a snake that’s been run over.
Time is an eagle on whose back we fly.
Time is a ticking off of lists and intervals....
Time is a bomb that is always exploding
with bursts like tiny fireworks going off inside your brain.
Time is a river rushing over your head,
drowning you in details and wetting you all over,
an invisible mother who carries you in her body,
whom you will never meet till she expels you into death.
Time is the downward slope of matter’s course of mattering.
Time is the gravity of existence’s experience,
the falling waters of a myriad of moments.
Time is a technical term for the endless troubling,
of the unstilled deeps in the cauldron of chaos.
Time is the scalding of spacial dimensions,
the whiptail curling of a perturbative string.
Time is the motionless movement of meaning
along the abfinite tracks of material truth.
Time is the glittering of sequins/ce on the evening gowns of Atman.

20 Aug 09