Faced with 8:38

Faced with 8:38 (its form & function,
its deliberate countenance), anything I could say turns
cheap & aphoristic. Blush & stumble words
armored in intent.

My time spent (spine bent) in the brevity of
this 8:38 — in the linger & lull of its quick arms
— has been Auspicious. A piece of luck.
& Opportune.

Because time can instruct. Is.
Is always, in a sense, 8:38 & never
a finished thing. . . . Time is becoming less
rigid or more so.

Any form tends to become its own
function & carries within it (clutched
or cradled) a miniature of its own
destruction.

Movement & form are not the same
thing unless movement is given form
(is formed by & accepts
the gesture).

What have I done? (for example)

My eyes opened just as the bedroom
clock (digital) configured as if on ice 8:38.
Day, thus far, appears convex & not
altogether unpleasant.

On us too

On us too
beings & things
cast no shadow

morning is slim
sunless & nervous
a minute belies me

a minute betrays
a hand's tiniest
hesitation

in this kitchen
now
toast toasting in a toaster

& time's utter
refusal to obey
the promise of its own

consistency, its own
myth

as if planning
already

the daily, the small
celebrations
kept secret & to itself

while I have coffee & toast
8:38 prefers tea & eggs

-- Mary Molinary

Naomi Rosewood

is the answer to a game: the name of the first animal I lived with and the name of the first street I lived on.