TAKE TIME
http://www.maverickmagazine.com/articles/326/1/TAKE-TIME-/Page1.html
C.L. Bledsoe
C.L. Bledsoe is an assistant poetry editor for the Hollins Critic, as well as a founding editor for Ghoti Magazine. http://www.ghotimag.com He has work in Margie, Snow Monkey, Natural Bridge, Nimrod, and Hobart, among other places.By C.L. Bledsoe
Published on 11/23/2005
Twist your neck like an owl back to when you collected days like squirrels.
When time was weak and green, unable to burn for anything.
Wash your shoes, you've walked on all the dead of the world,
and it's catching. Take time, as long as no one sees you
When time was weak and green, unable to burn for anything.
Wash your shoes, you've walked on all the dead of the world,
and it's catching. Take time, as long as no one sees you
Twist your neck like an owl back to when you collected days like squirrels.
When time was weak and green, unable to burn for anything.
Wash your shoes, you've walked on all the dead of the world,
and it's catching. Take time, as long as no one sees you
slip it into your pocket. Save it for later when you can savor it,
if it hasn't spoiled in the heat.
Stoop that thing you call a body down, sniff the thin and sharp needles
fallen from the trees around your uncle's pond;
this is how they sew the days. Don't ask where the thread comes from.
Don't you know anything?
You thought plastic would make you happy?
You thought rotting away to nothing was a horror?
Copyright © C.L. Bledsoe, 2005. All Rights Reserved.
When time was weak and green, unable to burn for anything.
Wash your shoes, you've walked on all the dead of the world,
and it's catching. Take time, as long as no one sees you
slip it into your pocket. Save it for later when you can savor it,
if it hasn't spoiled in the heat.
Stoop that thing you call a body down, sniff the thin and sharp needles
fallen from the trees around your uncle's pond;
this is how they sew the days. Don't ask where the thread comes from.
Don't you know anything?
You thought plastic would make you happy?
You thought rotting away to nothing was a horror?
Copyright © C.L. Bledsoe, 2005. All Rights Reserved.