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Time Out of Place
All who have no faith in time
live at peace in a timeless mousehole
a hole in the fabric of nothing at all,
where a moment is but a whisker
that twitches infinity.
Danny boy
walked boldly out of O'Reilly's Irish pub
right into a catastrophic gap in reality,
immediately he was drunk on his own legend
knees buckled, his head lolled.
Back in some fictional homeland
his mother sang like a bird in a kitchen
while she stirred a dark mouse stew,
Danny's eyes flowed over
with all the milky dreams of the unborn.
The cosmic joke is endlessly amusing.
It is not a matrix nor a malignant mystery,
it is the love of the undying,
the faith of all those that have lost all faith
it is the tall stories we tell ourselves
that make even shameless death shudder.
The mouse squeaks
and yet another tale
falls through a torn pocket
to be heard as birdsong
by a perfectly conscious
oblivion.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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