here in the neck,
in the in-between
the glass on top
and the globe
on the bottom
amidst the slide
of sand but where
it bottlenecks up
in the illusion
of steady and still
blissfully pretending
that it is not
trickling

grain
by
grain

I try to figure out
what’s going on
out there beyond,
on the other side
of the impassable wall.

Here among the ruins
of ancient times and places
I pick the flowers that grow
merry and brief and oblivious
to the faded splendour hinted
in the wreckage of time’s passing

grain
by
grain

are the flowers
the same as the sands
(I wonder this),
do they know they will also
become ruins?

Or do they know some
secret, have they some
nepenthe,
some salve,
some balmy medicine
for sorrow to aid in forgetting
pain and suffering?

i pick flowers
among the ruins
and long grief
is an altar hungry
for expiations that
are never enough
and yet still offered

grain
by
grain