Ed Rinaldi

what the rain couldn’t hear was

time is
a mistress
of more
Goddess
riddling the wind
with her tongues
on our clocks
carving
our dark begins
our peel scraped ends
our molecules thinned
enough to birth light in
each element of us
in all the space
that electrons ain’t
though perspective
and the truth
of painting horizons
is as it always is
an observable
set of accordion
conditions
and the truth is
that every rendition
is a thirst
is a crawl down
to bare essential
in a plea
for more time

EJR ©
poem 115 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo3)

 

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