2017-04-08



On Time
--Phillis Levin 
Time can be told in the opening of a flower,
Trumpet of dawn, flugelhorn of the sun
Sinking down. Noiseless explosions
Greet an attentive eye. And the ear
Is a flower, too, a welcome home for echoes,
Kisses, and cackles. Cauldron of starlight,
Tincture and blaring cry, whatever brushes
Your senses unlatches a doorway
Scoured by salt, vanishing as you plunder
The coffers of sleep. So you will know
What it means to be utterly free, floating
Without a hope, floating in hope, a medium
Fit for the being you have become, given
The bed you have made, the race you won.



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