time spin

and the world
continues to spin.

intense feelings
dull, get weaker.

the solitude was
palatable in the
rooms - the way
he walked thru
them.

and time is a funny
concept maybe.
unrelenting
moments
slipping
forward.

marooned
on the moon
in june, the hero,
or hapless space-
poet, ponders with
perplexing propensity
continuing sending
messages to the
universe at large
and calling it
poetry.

his mood was maroon.
his room was a mood.

schooled in the lost arts
of wrestling with words
openly before a hand-
ful of readers. full of
feelers, a forgotten
way to communi-
cate and it's too
late to forget
and it's too
soon to
rem-
ember.

embers of the moon
fall to earth in crashes
of planetary excitement.

dead, dull rock,
attached to the
earth by gravity
for the moment
slowly moving
away, escaping
the grasp to
wander out
past the
planets
or maybe
into the sun.

many millions of years
before that happens and
that amount of time is almost
but not quite indecipherable.
that is, you can catch a glimpse
of it maybe, but not the whole
immensity of all that time in
one single setting.

does time make us wise?
no, not the passage of it,
but our swimming through
it, dealing with experiences.