Times
Will there be moments where I’ll someday linger, warmer than the throats of singer’s springtimes, dearer than the gull’s wing to the air, that thing which lets me glide in swells, that stills the inner ringing bell? No times bring this; none tell me ‘Here, now; this: remember well’.
So all sweeps by in seconds, void of firsts. Each new set beckons its own verse. Each keeps its cold lips pursed, as if annoyed by dull time’s things, those throats and wings, those inner ringing bells.
