Fixing Time
March 13 2008


I try to picture time.

To nail it down,
like a collector pins dead butterflies
to his trophy case.

To hold it out at arm’s length
and turn it slowly
glowing,
its facets refracting at the speed of light.

Or stand rapt, like a child at a magic show.
The great illusionist
the master of misdirection,
light-fingered and quick
his bright eyes glinting mischievously.

All of it, contingent
impossible to fix.

A stuffy classroom, a disembodied drone;
and me, daydreaming
as time goes painfully slow.
And then, when I’m old
a runaway locomotive,
taunting me with speed.
And those intense moments of fear and glory
when it freezes
— the utter crystal clarity of things.
And how the more we have, the more we need;
like billionaires, addicted
— wasting time,
craving it.

And how, in the vastness of space
where stars give birth and galaxies collide
our lives blink-out like fireflies,
and leave no trace.
Until even the universe runs down
to a cold entropic state;
moving in a single relentless direction,
doling out time.

_ _ _ _ _


Before I was born, time did not exist.
And after I’m gone, it will end.
With every death
an entire universe extinguished.