My passage of thought echoes tick tick tick
like an unexploded moment, still
tightly packed, tense
–Yet death remains utterly asynchronous
to my effortless rendering of it.
I won’t cast the stones into the prayerful dust
sternly or frivolous. This speckling light
through the canopy hums . . . .
It’s a shock–I understand; to understand at all–
that daylight can wane.
However, lest I delay (an anxiety itself)
Let me deepen the shades and confess:
The final expulsion (even of stardust!) is fruitless,
And I haven’t even yet considered
their explanation . . . .
Copyright 2012 by Michael Marsters.
All rights reserved.