Meditações - flying minute

Gravitas

The overweight, overnight parts

that came to me in a dream.

 

Their clothes no longer fit,

it was this that brought them

to me crying, their faces twitching.

 

That had to end. No, they said,

it didn’t. So I rolled over to ghosts

that couldn’t dent a pillow.

 

The clock shed. Night pulled its

burdens into harbor and I woke,

glad for the day, its telltale light,

 

its flying minute, that genie work,

and the everlasting perturbations

of my people, their glories,

their heavy last words,

Sara Miller