In Time, No Time
poem
by Chris Hanch
For ninety-seconds, no sound.
(A blessed anomaly for modern times.)
No roar or whining,
No coming and going
Up and down 17th Avenue,
A window on the world I face right now.
For ninety-seconds, only a silence.
(A deaf-mute hears the pin drop.)
And I clock the in and out of my own breathing,
Feasting on the dark of 5:50 A.M.,
A quiet meal eaten alone
In the deep, dry well of mystery
Where I breathe wordlessly,
Billowing clouds of soft satin fire.
Wistful thoughts leave my own gravity,
Are released unimpeded
Into an Outer Space
Beyond starry distraction.
For ninety-seconds, a universe of somewhere,
Nowhere I can say,
But neither here nor there.
For a time, no time,
No reference for place or station,
No punctuation blocking the way,
No questions either, for answers to replace,
Not even the slightest grinding,
Curs-ed blinding need to know, why?
In Time, No Time © COPYRIGHT 2006 Chris Hanch. Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author. 06/29/06
