Untitled To The Decimal Point

Us Autodidacts Know What Time It Is

I’m now too old to promise
Yet still too young to pretend
That the end of any given sentence
Suggests a full pardon, period.

Time is the true parenthetical
parading backwards in reticent
relief,
a second hand dream indebted
to the grief of an hourly wager

The odd odds of likeliness
In stopping the clock, to collect
just one moment won,
Is the sum of the cosmic lock
the house money of human
history




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