Time Is A Box Of Light Poem by Simon Gwynn

Time is a light box,
a basket of rain,
limbs from a star sprung,
the blood's spiral of forms again.

A wind wrapped in a hollow,
in your palm a trapped grain.

Time's an octave, subsonic,
unmaking a stone,
a puncture outfit in space
for leaks in the ozone.

An arrow stilled at its zenith,
the earth shadowed with bone.

Time is a membrane -
breath seducing the blood,
a word for love drawn
from the wolf's howl in the wood.

The dark exchanges of magic
between man and his food.

Time's a compass point spinning
at the nebula's eye,
plotting conjunctions
of immeasurable radii.

The attenuation of mirrors,
the wornout contours of dice.



(August,1975)