Time's tenses clench - such tension round a nerve; subjunctive futures shiver in their wings; past should lie platitude, but pumps new springs; and both horizons sail beyond our curve.
Time was we weren't; time's coming we'll not be: seems we emerge from stories of an egg, can't drag one show with us, chained to dead leg. Where the world, the flesh?... Divil of a mystery!
Yet in some decades hence, when, sure, I'm gone, you read these words and curse the wormwood bloke lid-nails you in mortality: "So drear!
OK. I know. It all becomes as one. Wrap no present in your quatrains? Some joke. I'll run fast, breathe, endorphin. Spring is here!"
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