Connective Tissue

Along the West Wind Drift

what versions of reality exist

might be frozen on the ice sheets,

seconds, hours, months…eons

when time goes rigid.

Except for the passing of ships

and the sliding wind

nothing changes or moves

in the perfection of blue ice.

 

In warmer climes,

populated, dotted with colors,

broken into fragments,

time gathers its denominations

behind fences, under swells

and tree lined streets,

to be released in the daily pattern,

the ebb and flow of tides and traffic,

in rhythms of heartbeat and breath.

 

Somehow we know a unity.

The piecemeal of time’s strobe effect,

flashes of black and white on a darkroom wall,

gather into this fabric of pictures.

Not the frozen blue confection,

but tenuous connections,

finding their way

through the light and dark patches

that separate us one from another.