The UNPOEM

time

 is
an illusion
we've been told
just a measure
of how dead
one can
be

metes, bounds
coffee
spoons


still--

if the only
way to
beat
moloch
is to
give

give
give

you might
as well
give
some
time to

some

one

some
time

time---

your
time,
which,
although
an

illusion

is
well-spent
because
the gift

is
some

Thing
thought
thinks
it

can

count.

THE PASSION

you have

on the broadway line, the
one train manhattan, a
white plastic shopping
bag full of other
plastic items
on your lap

and an itch that you feel
is somehow indelicate
ill-mannered and
indiscreet

to scratch

so, you decide you'll
suffer through it
anyway for the
sake of the other
passengers, for the
sake of propriety

sensibility.

maybe that'll
help.