Caraacara

Time hides in folded away pockets. Your breast pocket, holds that protector  for all the broken pens you should have had the notion not to put there.  Time hides away: it's what we make when there's something covering it.  A notion of should be's and should do's.  But are instead filled with willfull rebelion. We remember the moments that caught us off-guard.  The way the light hit a dancing person in off-white garb,  The opening of a door or being face to face with a perception of beauty. The honesty we might have masked if given a do-over, held us for time. Time lost for one another, but time spent with the dime spinning,  waiting to see where it would fall.   And finally, we fall into this time. We fall again to words.  Because words have held us for such a time.  Giving us again and again the chance to pick up a moment from before or a moment now. The rush is that time will allow for sharing space with words, and space without.  Time will allow our eyes to lock.  We

 They lie under the surface,   seeds that are tiny and round,  with corners that jut out and anchor in place, while rubbing  and scraping tiny lines on each surface. Slide your foot across the floor and you'll feel their grinding. Push hard, and they'll cut into the corklike tissue of your foot,  not quite glass, not quite broken. And where they lodge, there they'll grow.  Flush as many of them out as will flow through the corridors of your thoughts.  Maybe you'll succeed in living a good clean life. You could perhaps pretend that they weren't there for a good long while.  But they'll be sending out their threadlike fibers,  grabbing and pulling for fertile pockets kneading tenderly at the parts of your being that pass unnoticed,  ever growing, living, breathless.