Time has gone by, curling up like a cat

 

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,

But harder-

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.

Sudden Heat

I put my hand into the strange swirling pattern in the rock, and so did she.

We put our hands together there, and then suddenly felt the intense heat

As first our hands, then arms, then shoulders, (then our bodies), dipped into the cold stone of eternity

A silence cured by cosmic ray lamps- black holes and pulsars, (it takes a bit of time). Do you know where life came from? There.

Did you see that shooting star?

Neither one of us expected it, and yet we both thought exactly the same thing.

At that moment, we looked inwardly and outwardly, simultaneously {sorry Prof. Einstein} imploding and exploding, towards the Universe’s, of both the very small and very large.

This tendril of a vine stopped here, and then jumped across a galaxy

Through a Worm hole, in time itself.

 

There is a mirror universe, not too far away

Someone wakes in one village, another wakes in another.

She takes a sip from a cup, an aliquot of liquid deuterium oxide, (fresh squeezed star juice), spilling from a fountain

And dreams of meeting him. They still look at each other, with that latent heat of recognition,

not towards a street, or a house,

Or across a valley, not even across a table,

But towards a day.

And within that, to whatever frame of time, that stops long enough.

 

© Matthew Kenneth Kosak

It Should Not Give Me Much Concern

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

 

It should not give me much concern
To watch the time drain away
Like so much indifference
Would I not expect it any other way?
 
A usurer cannot own such rights!
A usurer cannot own such nights!
 
It melts and covers over my body, the great green screen like green chlorophyll taken from a million leaves of trees that dot the hill.
 
And I lean forward into the space, 
A password prods at my elbow
like an eager bichon poodle pup.

Where should we go today?
Where should we go tomorrow?