We’ll pretend, shall we, that time has gone by,
hourglasses with their tiny waists, corseted,
a pocket-watch whose gears tick and tock
in lock-step until they jump like hurdlers,
moons risen, shorelines eroded into shapes
the Abenaki wouldn’t recognize, clams studding
the rocks just as implacably. The calm of mollusks.
Someone decided you have no choice, again,
you must stand when the man tells you to,
you can’t abstain or demur or explain, those verbs
are not for you. How many nights can we hope
an ideal can have substance behind it, the yolk
binding the white into custard from meringue,
sugar to let us tolerate the transfiguration?
How long is the year it will take for that to be true?