The patterns that walk on stilts
in the trailing tick of
clocks malfunctioning in rational
space; that which are would not be
hours from now, existent or the same
tomorrow night
but as for now, and now being instantaneous
or like a sign we see at 70 mph
here, gone before it was here, or it is here gone
we like to rest in
arms, round and bowled, cupping
porcelain, almost-you know, those big
sloppy bowls, misshapen to a degree
with Indian pictures of mothers
and quilts and wild mountains and
rock: sitting in front of blue smoke
fading, an art fading art, because
paint fades away
and porcelain shatters
and earth crumbles
and magma subsides
and skies rotate
and horizons dissipate
and pecans decompose under the heavy
fall of winter
in the trailing tick of
clocks malfunctioning in rational
space; that which are would not be
hours from now, existent or the same
tomorrow night
but as for now, and now being instantaneous
or like a sign we see at 70 mph
here, gone before it was here, or it is here gone
we like to rest in
arms, round and bowled, cupping
porcelain, almost-you know, those big
sloppy bowls, misshapen to a degree
with Indian pictures of mothers
and quilts and wild mountains and
rock: sitting in front of blue smoke
fading, an art fading art, because
paint fades away
and porcelain shatters
and earth crumbles
and magma subsides
and skies rotate
and horizons dissipate
and pecans decompose under the heavy
fall of winter
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