time they say
is like
sand
each moment
an implied
equidistance
from the rest,
each with
its own
heart
burrowed inside
the thousand things
felt in
each
are all
available
at all
points
also those
imagined
space is lodged
inside
that heart
also
like a
pinecone
ready to
spill its
seed
at frost,
waiting to
decompress
the image is of
a dawn a lighter shade
of gray
and the earth too
a lighter gray
and
me giving thanks
for everything
for everything
i remember
the stutter collected
inside my tongue