Whim of the Minute
They matter, but not for long.
Each second clicked to attention by a charged arrow
pointing to doors that will not open though we wait.
The hour is philanthropic, the minute a miser,
concealing the otherwise least uppermost
erotic serenity of convinced societies
caused merely to open their eyes momentarily.
Its very tail makes a river of the fox,
raccoon a sleeping creek in the leafed trees, a trickle
in the worms of measured pleasure,
all eating their pasts.
Second is the whim of minute that exchanges space
for candles. S was mentioned as the living river,
C was death,
body-curl of the life-threatening.
When duration was certain, each cabin was given a boat
light blue to match the weather.
I cannot even remember were the flowers near the house
white or yellow in the afterlife,
what crisp lilies traveled within minutes of the alphabet. 