Today's poems are by Mary Molinary
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 8:38in the linger & lull of its quick arms
has been Auspicious. A piece of luck.
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
Movement & form are not the same
thing unless movement is given form
(is formed by & accepts
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
8:38 is straw
8:38 is straw
lighta slant & sleight
tilt of metamorphosis.
8:38 is o-
amidst cinder & concrete.
8:38 is a
tion. 8:38 does not
exist except in the
telling by objects
as they tremolo through space.
8:38 is what
we tell ourselves in
consolation, grief. Perhaps,
No one or number
is awake enough to fight
& mean it, but in this
meantime of this year,
8:38 feels its strength,
hangs heavy from morning's
rafters, seems to shift,
lifts a lip & prods us on.
Copyright © 2005 Mary Molinary All rights reserved
from Beloit Poetry Journal
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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