Underground Turtles

The early bird catches the worm,

the early worm catches the bird.

To the morning robin listen closely.

There within you will find,

there within you will hear

the hoot of the owl. Dawn’s crack comes as a door open

but only so slightly.

It comes as a muskrat would gnaw at the edge of night.

Take a walk. You will forever remain in the present’s wake,

therefore, “take” remains—and is always—took.

Within the shadow of the nightshade

I could smell and taste the milky sap of the morning glory

and within the morning glory:

moonflowers.

Present is always one step behind.

As we advance we retreat into dawn.

And dawn’s sister is dusk. And dawn’s reflection is the moon.

No matter how well-meaning, the present could not sustain.

It could not tolerate or weather or endure or stand.

The moving-mirror-time-space-continuum,

this menagerie of moments, this battleship of molecules

and inertia,

always pressed—always presses—close,

forever compelled near,

at last, falls in upon itself because it cannot stand upon itself.

It’s as but bones without its skin

and eternity wins.

© June 23, 2013 by UT2

Ripples on a lake

trans

act. Glass

on a beach,

lies,

continues to be: glass,

polished smooth by interchange.

I watch a sparrow

as if it were tomorrow because today arrived early.

I throw a rock as far as I can;

it still sits, same indentation.

I cannot see past this fallow moment.

© September 15, 2012 by UT2