I breathe in a Dutch window, the edges spangled

with a bruised, unmitigated, and somewhat christless grime


that I insist is algae scraped

from the sea of this hour, this hour in all its nudity.


The window panes are an assembly unto themselves,

for in their utter, inmost glee,


they have forgotten the contours of a clock called Ida.

Somewhat chastened. More than bridled.


No longer can they stroke its virgin hands

or cup its choirlike face in their glassy palms.


Jubilation—that is the meaning

of this anti-reminiscence.


Time is a paper-cut.