When my father was dying

he had a lot of questions about the past.

Unearthing his childhood.

With slurred but arrow-sharp spades.

Maybe when we arrive toward the rear-ended reel,

we loop and

we rewind 

to the very beginning.

So how, if time is also a construct,

do beginnings and endings bookmark time like that.

Stories appearing deceptively linear.

If time is a construct,

then how, in a state of transience,

does time appear a stalely, heavy premonition.

Time is stenchingly tangible

when things are temporary.

Non-permanence earmarks that factor 

we call time.

So, there time is. But also, things won’t last.

Making light, 

suspending the decision 

in time. 

Like a dismissal or like giving permission.

Things come into their place. 

Or it is that they fall into them.

As if, for destiny to fully form,

It heeds us to

get out of the way and 

just let time run its course.

Requiring from us – not much. 

Only to

proliferate.

Into 

the person who waits – right here. In. This. Moment.

…And the person who moves forward.

When the best part of our person – wishes to go all they way back….

to the beginnings (OK and then maybe a few more chapters).

Soften.

…softer,

Softer!

Until there is nothing corporeal.

Shapeless becomes the time capsule

that we are blown, like air, into.