posted Feb 21, 2012

We take our time but seldom
give it. We spend more than
save. We keep instead of
let it go, although, from time
to itself (that is, from time to time)
we lose its track, like paw 
prints in a blizzard: It was there,
or there. We had it but cannot get it back.
Poor souls have done it,
but it cannot be undone.
We’re guilty of killing it: Like blood,
it was too much on our hands.
The essence is what it’s of.
It flies when fun is had—or when
fun is made a fool of; in Latin,
tempus fugit. With you,
it often did. Now, the opposite,
how slowly it trudges on,
with its hourglass figure,
its stare like steel.
But what do we expect?
We have to give time time:
It is always running out,
and has so many wounds to heal.

Damian Fallon’s work has appeared in Five Points and Tar River Poetry. He lives in Brooklyn.

We’ve published two more poems by Fallon: “Bats” and “The State of Main.”