26 Jul Noah Cebuliak
this is time, slipping through your fingers, grains of
sand on a sunned beach, falling through Moroccan
air, some reaching the immediate space next to your
feet, some caught in the long, hot wind.
this is time, this sacred day you were given. one of an
average of 25,000, it is said. it is said we sleep
through a full third of that
this is time, what the cities swallow
with their cigarettes and exhaust and grey sex. the
people and their festivals, burning too swift like
candles in a drafty room, some snuffing out without
this is time, this beach, this moon, these handsome
men, those planets in alignment, this act of pouring
tea, this sentence spoken in true hate or revelation.
this is time, this choice, and this choice and this