the speed of light does the frame

    we call the present begin to ooze

his hands are brown his hands are real

    a woman's face pressed against the window

it is impossible to forget her face

    red shift/ blue shift/ red shift blue

a racemose inflorescense we discover

    in ourselves an umbel: a flowering

a humble strength to love the inventor

    of time/ So this is

a love poem then?

    Ah 'tis spring and every curved thing

to be non-Euclidean and young

    the cop pulls to the curb

laundry flutters nearby

    arms and legs in two dimensions

a chance object nested

    in chance occurrence/ causality

implied/ does he have choices

    hiding in the bushes

drifting amongst the rushes

    the inventor of time

born of ??elsewhere??

    alien in this landscape

the eyes that look upon

    the eyes that look upon

the land/ that final

    place to dance before the

elements combine

    before mass redefined

moving in sublime

    cartography he is the

son of oblivion/ his hands

    swollen of night stick

ritual he is something of an enigma

    lying in a puddle his invention

slipping rapidly secretly

    from him/ begins acceleration

only as a traveler approaches

    the speed of light does the frame

we call the present begin to ooze