Time/text by Alice Major
Time comes quantized
in little books pocked
with fifteen-minute intervals
that mark my progress
through the day —
Niggling book of kells
spelling out the duties
and services
peculiar to each hour.
They stack up in my desk drawer
beside month-end reports —
proof that I existed in July
of 1990, attended meetings,
ate lunch, wrote a letter. I reorder
from companies called
Daytimer
Time Text
Until I turn a page and find it
blank
seamless, unrecorded —
a day that has slipped away whole
and entire. For all I know, it was a day
I met with the universe,
illuminated a manuscript
with a single symbol —
Ω Omega, or
∞ Eternity
Where does time go? Thanks, Alice, for your poem.
No comments:
Post a Comment