Lint
Cielo Hemon
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Lint
There are whole chunks of time
That don't really need to exist,
Despite the losses. The body is
Ninety-nine percent nothing,
The stuff between the shaky
Core and the electron despair,
The remainder the mighty dross
From the ever-dying universe.
I remember,
There was once a day that was
Just a day, a thick patch of being,
Warm, short, with no measure
Or meaning other than itself,
Everything set in its place,
As if the particles stopped moving
In order to admire themselves
And all the creation; no beginnings
To worry about, nowhere to go,
Nothing to end. We knew to be still,
The emptiness fluttered and sighed
As we waited for the newborn music.
It was a cold Tuesday in September,
No one noticed what just happened,
Everyone went about their living
Inside the terrible, endless fears,
While transcendence chimed
All around like an ice-cream truck.
Whereas today no one is aware
That in the corner of every home
In the world warm matter is found
In tiny wholes, carting wonder-light
In and out of the grand obscurity,
So much of it I often vacuum it.
Who among us has ever existed
Among us, and not cold and alone
Like a beggar in what's now called
A cashless society? Such dramas
Often last forever--like pyramids,
Like pickled eyes--though none
Of them refracts in the shallows
Of the new and better worlds.
Nonetheless, the future accrues
Like lint in the pockets of life,
So much of it you can stuff it
In your empty clothes and heart.