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.

8:38 is straw

8:38 is straw
light—a slant & sleight
tilt of metamorphosis.

8:38 is o-
verheard argument
amidst cinder & concrete.

8:38 is a
lover's despera-
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,

reconciliation.
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