poem, poetry, Heraclitus, time, pastoral

UNAWARES

on the farm
days meander

what time
does you demon
declare to be

the short hand has
become the lomg hand
has become a ballistic needle
to doom Saturn and
the rock planets
and the rest
of the gas giants
to loneliest existence
unobserved
for the rest
of eternity

network
with me now
let’s try retrospect, do
our collective level
best
to piece this
all together

thesaurus of causalities
every clue connects, and
there’s a plethora
all leading to clues
within
clues within clues
finding us back where we began

and the text
of all we have, that fickle river,
runs away from us
flows different with
every new
question we just
have to ask

no stepping for once into
the once and all

Heraclitus knew this
full well

but now he has gone
we have gone

seems a miracle of massively
metaphysical proportions
is what the rewriting
of who we are
requires

on the farm where time
takes it easy, is prone
to suspend things

change will catch you
fantastically unawares