Where Time Takes a Wound
With shoes
in which doubt still walks,
you step along the edge of a second,
and time—
like a wounded animal—
keeps repeating itself
without ever dying.
Your breath
is neither air
nor hope;
it is a thin rope
that silently
hangs the silence.
Pause a moment.
The world
does not come to understanding
at the speed of your haste.
Pull your hands back
from the future.
No tomorrow is close enough
to tremble
from your touch.
Silence—
if it grows afraid—
will crack,
and from its fissure
life will drip,
not gently,
not with certainty,
but like water
that has accepted
falling
as one form of arrival
I