The rattle of bones, the mad march of skeletons,

skulls rounded and milky white, eyes vacant

with the loss of memory—life is that and nothing else—now only

these locked and bolted doors, the slight rain pelting

the windows, the membrane of yesterday

a shimmering gauze across the summon

of future gone past

too soon, too sleek and slippery in the hand

to hold, or even caress, even grasp its solid curve,

its chill, its hollow egg fragile with potential,

for one moment, one full and ripened moment,

begging only to arrest, hold, linger, fathom,

taste on the tongue

tip, and honeyed taste on the lips,

a mango sweet, dipped and rolled and set

to flame. Only one. No matter.

Time flings itself in reckless abandon.

Thrashes against the closet doors, shatters the windowpane,

has its nervous breakdown and curls into a fetal coil

in the darkest corner of the room, whining and whimpering.

This room. One life.

And time a colder thing even than apathy—

this dizzying speed ushering in a visage

of empty desert, a golden and infinite nothing.