Trickster Timing

It’s a strange thing, time.

Hours can feel like days

when you have something to look forward to,

someone to go home to,

to hold, to cherish.


When you’re with them, days

pass like minutes,

heartbeats of a hummingbird,

rolling the week along

so that once more you have to part.


Time, that careful trickster,

changes again,

making every second drag,

as if taking extra delight in the stab wounds


causes you.



The days have been cut

into little square sheets

and knitted together with swathes

of cloud and typewriter ribbons.

A soft blanket with starched,

crisp edges to snuggle down into.

The only way those calloused

anxieties at the sudden lack of order

can be paled into beads of frost

that only thaw when thoroughly warmed.