Anoint me with clockless skin,
the last human desire
twittering on Time Avenue.

Make the main course contentment,
even in the face of alacrity:
(if the body is a shell, so let it)

man is severed from time
(which is not at all static, mechanical)
best in gardens

where electric color
is squeezed from Flora
blue on the eyes, yellow to heart

I beg of you, “become eternal”
and the tongue
will spell it’s message in circles

never dictating “soon”
which is always “gone’
full to history’s brim

happenings are slow to near
and we’re left with (where?)
catapulted, tumultuous

only misgiving: the one that is
the distance between who and who,
is you.