the trouble with time

the trouble with time is not its passage
nor its failure to leap forward on command.
it is not its stubborn inconsistency-
one minute a kiss-hoarding lover
and the next hour merely presenting you with its glove.
It is not the petals, flowers, blushing, redness, risen
again and yet again for the first time.
it is not how it wraps around itself –
a nautilus tightly coiled in spirals –
nor how it unfurls with generous amplitude
in lazylong sundays so slow that even
words cannot be bothered to separate
(let alone skin). no.
the trouble with time is the inexorable
march toward that moment when legs and arms and verbs alike
must be parsed to survive in the solitary confinement
of watches and clock faces.

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