I’ve sat by the trickles of en-diesel-ed days
And played with pebbles in tar,
As bouquets of red and yellow and mauve
Have withered into shades of brown.
Torn into cubicle of antipodal shifts
Ours are tracks that rarely converge –
Halved by the meridian digits on clock.
Packed into cans of unmoving past
We’ve chewed over recollected passions in freeze.
Digging our hours from albums of still
We play out our acts and crave
Times that are bolted in frames.