Being With Time
Angles of Being I push away
Like winter visions in summer
Or summer sweat in the fall
I fall for it all the time
The angles of Being as if
They existed like that
Just like that in realities
We can’t fathom and never
Will see
Because our senses are puerile
In the grand scheme of things
In the swelter of summer
In the mists of winterish
Storms and howls
And legendery wooshing
Like some pack of grey wolves
Glowing across the bad lands
Towering above us all like black clouds
The winterish heart of Being survives
In the midst of this or that spring
Being with time
Being with time for the crash
For just a third or fourth shattered sound
For just an inch of crescendo
I wander between the angles
And the wisp of a chance
That it will ever
Ever see me again
—by Douglas Pinson