Joanne Monte

It's the chance we did not have,
that metered stroke of a second before we knew

you were leaving, its luminous hand
unscathed by effort in the reigning darkness

like the sand in the hourglass our fist
could not keep from seeping into the lost

and forgotten. The moment was not ours.
The moment we would not have imagined,

borrowed briefly and returned to oblivion
in the aria of chimes played

by the mantel clock on the hour,
or in the wet glimmer of a kiss that we blew

into the open space we never
would have entered, telling us it's over,

or in the grief of leaving a single word behind
had we said goodbye in time.