Sestina (2)
It rushed out of my pocket -
the illusion of time,
a washing of space.
Almost as if we were infinite,
making tracks on the concrete
regardless of the allowances
better folks had allowed us
to keep in the pockets
behind the wall. In concrete
blocks where we sit and pass time,
dusting off our bones for infinity,
life squared away into manageable spaces.
How I mourned for those spaces
that buildings of leisure allowed
to exist for a short piece of infinity
before collapsing. They were pockets
holding decreasing lengths of time
we’d hoped to transmute into concrete
from beginnings which are never concrete.
Churned dirt looms through the spaces
seen from windows. It takes time
to catch them with our eyes, allowing
only dust to fall into our pockets.
What I once knew of you was infinite.
Although you still move into infinity,
you begin to harden like concrete
poured into a cracked pocket of sidewalk;
a dismal, neglected space
where only you are allowed
to wait, marking time.
I recalled you speaking of the times
you’d seen the expansion, infinity,
saying, “If I was only allowed
to live more concretely,
grounded in the physicality of spaces
I’ve longed to fit in my pocket,
instead of leaving me to waste time in institutions of concrete;
letting the infinite unfurling of empty spaces
rule my direction without allowing me to stop and empty my pockets.”
