Beyond Time
There is a future, lined
on the back of her sundrenched hand,
but she cannot read its then or now or then.
Her time, uncharted in this emerald light
of one summer afternoon, late,
a hiatus between lavender sachets
and honeybees who settle in for long sucking
while the rope hammock sways away
each moment to shadowed slants beyond
beyond that poem, unfinished, there is time,
unparsed but for the comma added
then deleted or the ‘burning act’
revised to ‘bitter and burning’,
but for cuts that remain unscarred
and wine glasses never emptied. That poem balances
unwritten, never danced to bed, to climax,
that poem, her time, suspends like a champagne bubble
on crystal’s lip, never to release, never to be tongued.
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