Each time, a sound

Bell-like and wound –

             Saying it’s time; each time is passing now.

Cool felt-like lips

Trying hard, forceps -

            Braying out; going out into the breach.

Each line and circle

_(It tells me time is both line and circle)_

But the thought drops me into silent abyss,

I cannot go on with mind like this.

It’s not birth, nor death.

It’s not fault, nor temptress.

On limbic pull, like a sleigh in snow

High on the hill, covered in visceral.

Pleating to the corners, falling folds again

Drowning across the ocean and so,

Keep on…

                   (one)

                        On you go.

---

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

To lie in cold obstruction and to rot,

This sensible warm motion to become

A kneaded clod, and the delighted spirit

To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice,

Measure for measure, William Shakespeare (Act 3, Scene 1)