What Flies

And the numbers now.

Will this what then not let itself be counted,
what when it was not permitted any stop?
I walked on limbs while sorting them:
this, and then this, and so on, what
passes for mind an organizing principle.
Unless this flesh is made of minutes
would you save it? I meant to answer.

Current, fly through me.
You must be time.

Is this the hour, then?
Am I?

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

Leave a ReplyCancel reply

Discover more from Breadcrumbs

Subscribe now to keep reading and get access to the full archive.

Continue reading

Exit mobile version
%%footer%%