Time is not a river in the mind,
it runs in agitated swirls and eddies,
with a little fabric softener.
We’re pebbles skimmed across its waves,
seabirds too ungainly to find its sky,
who skate along time’s surface, and
never understand its heights
Only Jakaíra, cloudy Queen of Bleach,
knows what’s been taken when
something else is given, who’s forgotten
when a childhood love’s remembered,
where we were before we left, and
who we’ll be when the motor stops,
and the spin dry cycle’s done.
I suspect that what I’ve written about time makes a little too much sense. It definitely doesn’t compare to David Bowie’s Time—He flexes like a whore, falls wanking to the floor. About the last thing I’d expect time to do, but who knows?
Jakaíra is the god of mists and fog in the mythology of Brazil’s Tupi-Guarani peoples.
washing machine angels—Vietnamese bamboo paper, dry water, light