Time has gone by, curling up like a cat bundling,
against that cold music-less time,
between the afternoon and the evening.
Here on these streets, it is now too late for those five or six years of bliss I imagined,
But not too late for three or maybe two
Yes those four were wasted. It doesn’t matter, time stands still anyway-
Here, a year or even less would seem like an eternity.
These are the good years, the ones never expected that you live for
They are taken, not given,
(carved), Like some pleasure crafted from the stone of neediness. Is it needy to want air?
You have to cut at it with something hard, not with expectation,
like truth you’ve never known.
They’re not given, but they might be found
A rare (rose) flower you pluck from a forbidden garden.
And doesn’t it feel right?
I should think it might last for a year, at least to the next winter.