Each Further Moment Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Is this meekly
the crowning of
the very next moment?
Sliced from an any day
ceremoniously spread of
that very next moment?
One musty and squeaking
of steel sliding against
the grind of one more moment?
Through this filmy pane of memory's pains
meaning engorged on the rot
of those motionless and missed moments
are thoughts merely fraught in desires
sieved through outstretched hands
playing with the divinity in
each further moment