These Lengths of Our Days
These long days strung upon such a short string,
dreams all, dreams collected as a thread of life.
These nights that arrive like blackboards -
and all smudged with chalk.
Do you wake and feel as if all that has gone before
was not even once and is no more?
A can of condensed soup, a Warhol image
we took down from a self-shelf and opened,
the ingredients were more than we thought
but much less than we imagined.
Did we write the script we now recall
or do we ghost read?
These short days strung upon such a long string,
each one a story told to ourselves;
a bead on a rosary of belief
that now unravels
to clatter upon a floor
that is disappearing under our feet.
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