ON THE THEFT OF TIME
Why else have you, reading,
ended up here of all places
from where you were before
unless to discover
from someone other than yourself
that every one of the fifty eggs
which agnostic Grandpa Otten
once collected and sucked
a century ago
and laid to rest in a
sky-blue set of drawers,
in time bequeathed to me,
that every one of the fifty eggs,
that of the linnet, too,
small as a little finger,
freckled with ochre,
will, in these very lines,
be gently feathered as in
their nest of former times
and, in your reading, hatched?
No comments:
Post a Comment