I wrote this poem on the train on Friday. I hadn’t written a poem in a long time..

A Sliver is a Sliver

One, two, three -
the dimension for me.
Is it
All we need?
Inside,
time is despised.

It’s a hyperstale
moment.
With no room for surprise.
No death, no growth.
Horizontal and vertical are practical.
Depth is only natural,
But a sliver is just a sliver.

Now is no time for the present,
(unless you’re omnipresent)
but still…

Yeah, still -
like a flower on a window sill.
With no fear of deflowerment,
But no hope for water.

A pig led to slaughter.
Forever in line;
Next on the chopping block.

A rock,
loosed by a missplaced foot.
A smile caught in shock.
The slip — the lost grip –
Registered by the body
But still waiting in line,
To be processed by the mind.

Is it good to go,
or tragic to stop (on a dime or more gradual)?
Perspective makes it possible
To consider the case.
But neurons can’t fire
outside time and space.
And clocks don’t tick or tock
inside this box.

Is it better to ‘be’,
or ‘was’ or ‘will’?
To ‘try’ or ‘wait’
or ’stop’?
To ‘think’
or ‘thunk’ or ‘plan to plan’?
Or ‘do’ or ‘intend’
or ‘give up’? Again and again and again…

Let’s lunge.
Momentum goes a long way,
both ways.
But if we can blink in an instant,
We can lumber through eternity.