Monday, September 1, 2014

The First Monday in September

The world is always past 
appearing in the present—
it’s as if we stop 
a river with our names. 
It’s Labor Day and leaves 
already begin to turn 
in trees with lesser makeup. 
Over at Half Moon Lake, 
say forty-seven years ago, 
the summer of our love 
is pulled in from the water 
left to sit upon 
the shore and slowly dry. 
The school of pointless knowledge 
waited for our fall. 
But look! A butterfly 
is playing like a crazy 
leaf right now. Oh, time 
is nothing of the essence 
but an emptiness 
divided by imagi-
nation. When this body 
dies, its universe 
of space and time goes with it.
But. Not. I.

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