Time is the great usher
playbills filling boxes in someone else’s attic.
I pack all your things and any beautiful person
walking by might fill you like I couldn’t.
May you rest in me as a gourd vine growing
around something lost to someone once
but claimed new by mulch and seed, tendrils moving
towards the sun, the sun lighting up the lank of your torso
beneath your shirt,
your shirt getting folded in a new way by someone else.
How I managed to always fold your clothes and never mine.
May the blight of us like sediment grow firm
the firmament of us grow soft
as new love congregates like candelabras
our hearts like everybody’s hearts
eventually back into the earth
the earth a clock, a false torch
in the hard drive
of the universe.