Time. Gentle. Man. Please.

Some change angst.

Time always feels warm and fat to me,

And I have pillow pressed my face to it as a man,

Like I did my Nan’s ample, aproned belly, as a child.

 

But now,

in between these moments of self-imposed change

I can feel it attenuating,

suddenly anorexic, pale and panicked.

 

It is as if, in choosing all these individual endings,

I have unwittingly chosen a bigger one,

Still unclear to me but looming,

An unravelling that I cannot now control,

As time size zeros, all rice cakes and f**s,

looking at me with bony, accusing eyes.

 

Every thing,

Every one,

Every place,

Every time,

Ends.

 

March 2009

 

Reviews

[Steven Pottle]

I adore this poem...it's the only piece I've read that has the words 'rice cakes' in it.