the high held note,
Makes it feel as if
the patchwork fits,
But so much is asked
of this gift called time,
As if it can't be onion peeled
past, present and future
Like music into layers
to savor the experience
Of watching it go, for time
is only memory,
Though we don't, strictly speaking,
remember anything;
Every moment is a blank slate
we fill with paradise smoke
To eagerly brush the dust away
and await the grief
Of losing what was never there,
the keenest kind of loss.
