Of Time and of Hours

From time, run certain hours
much too thin, shivering in their contrition
of being transgressors, nude
with none of the audacity of instants
that glide languors and silks
about divans of calmness, still warm
in each sultry fold, from a whole
awakening opened without shutting
dream.

They hold it, time
certain other hours, flabby
between breasts sagging from feeding up
the obese constancy of being postponed, and bellies
stretch-marked of moments, profuse
and birthed, yet, not delivered
or truly living, within the coil
of cords, around the air pulled short
but never cut.

And there are hours, many other hours
varied in colour and also in blindness
in despondency, dread, and longing for arrivals
upon boats, hollowed, of departure, and maritime flights
of bird that lost its raucous chant
on the deafness of the wind and in a hiatus
sweeping oblivion onto the sand piled
at the bottom of the glass.

With those, follow, spiralled
yet some other hours, who delay and daze themselves
in the inert movement of their own eternal paradox
that extinguishes their dance and yet
is, of them, in time, the frozen, maybe stony pirouette
which the stage exiles within shadows of applause
from sympathizing lights, dimmed long ago.

And, from never, will ever come that hour
in which time finds itself
as that very time where the same hour is lost
and where one needs not cease the embrace
to start weaving certain enraptured tangles, innate and fatal
of the ardent repose where the other surrenders
to the orgasm and consecration of both. Wholeness
and blissfully bled infinite
thus generated, with no shame and all the honour
humble and magnanimous
of being, at the hour inherent to time pure
universe and god.

© 2005 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*® Authors & Creations