OCEAN OF TIME

A silent sense of urgency

dancing angrily inside of me

its storytelling relaying a distinctive chaos

that encourages me to hurry—to look away from myself—

My body forms into a new kind of vehicle

with every passing moment

and I seem not to notice

until my next still moment,

which does not come in waves or bundles

like the ocean of time

I have to snatch it for myself

holding a lens to myself,

granting myself a look at my reflection

I recognize time’s collaboration with my face

as flowers have grown underneath my chin,

above my lips, my chest, my legs, my toes, and my arms

Here we are

I look down to my fingers

seeing that time has thickened them

Time is passing through my hands as veins—the art of being alive—

A liberating celebration in itself,

except the angst of constant wondering:

how much time does one truly have?

How does one know where to go,

who to allow inside,

to caress the veins of time that grow though me like roots

or tree branches using their mobility

to make something tall, grown, experienced and grand out of me