64

Under the Sign of the Hourglass



glass
tied so tight
presses
in on us
squeezes the flow
so
all that
blown glass
curved air
quick sand
silver holes in water
must
sink through us from
skull to heel
in drifts
of used stuff
trees sky
minutes hours days
shed skin
we are
dust motes
the light
the needle
the eye the lens
ash cloud dust all
our particular
comminuted days
fine and and infinite grains
sift away
between
chair and bed
self and others
being and nothingness
until you find the glass
and turn it again

S.Bucknell. 22.11.55 - 22.11. 19.