it seemed
there was all the time in the world
and then the seas sand sifted between his fingers
and melted from under his feet staggering him grabbing words out of his
mouth
and deafening him with the sudsing surf the wind raking on fanned plants
and ragged tufted grasses on an eroding bluff spiraling over him
poetry
seized his eyes No man is an Iland intire of it selfe
every
man is a peece of the Continent a part
of the maine
he was eroding
slithering grain by grain to the salty
seabed kissing there the quivering
fertile morass
churning to rise again
in a splash a belch of ember-sluiced magma or from a cold ripe upwelling
to fill lusty mouths and pirate souls
it
seemed there was all the time in the world
fresh light bright fruit
coarse grain grown in clods of black
earth
animals fish
and fowl
it seemed
or so it seemed
then the sands slipped
gears ground
tears tortured
effortlessness beset
besieged by black effort
overworked skin frayed and split
spines twisted and curved
fingered work seized
and broke
moments earlier
there was all the time in the world
1700
approximately, Saturday, 20 1.
13
for Mom
for Mom
