There was a time when time measured movement.
Before movement was enshrined in time, defined by:
succession,
coexistence,
size.
Modernity shaped it into artifice:
GPS,
clocks,
time zones.
Theory reorganized it into substance:
non–chronological,
non–metric,
manifold.
Yet chaos dances without determination,
shifting the air between arm and ankle,
moving between habit, memory, and the new;
anatomically.
Atomically, infinite speed takes shape
then vanishes. Receiving information
accepting intuition, movement flows
into an everness,
enveloping
a passive synthesis of minerals:
calcium,
carbon,
chlorites,
that feed biological clocks and rhythms:
digestive,
nervous,
molecular.
But forget all this and rather let time
slacken into a long hazy fatigue—
a gilded sunrise of unbecoming,
whispering relentless provocations
of the new,
of the unknown,
of the forgotten.
Lean back into history and go
deep into the rhythm of the instant,
forever pressing itself into your palm,
always escaping your grasp.
Now feel the paradox of the past
leaning against the bone,
parading, always, as the present.
