They seem so discreet …
each moment from the other
the times we lay loving
and, with sweat glistening skins, pressing
are so far from the moments when we talk
and from the moments we gaze with love
Where are all of these … when we meet
for just a moment … between moments …
that we’ve touched and lost the world
does it matter … when the neon hours
come to claim us?
How can it be so disconnected …
I almost wonder if Pincheon and Vonnegut
are right … time is discontinuous
to those whose eyes
burnt all the veils away
Can deja vu be, perhaps, just other moments
passing us … pressing us
does it matter that we’ve touched
before or after ….
gallagher
17 may 78
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —
This entry was posted on Wednesday, May 17th, 1978 at 00:00 and is filed under 1978, Long Beach. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.