07/03/2026
The persistence of time (for Brian Herdman)
That was now then,
and then again.
This now is now
as well, somehow.
So many, rolled up
like millimetres
each one separate
yet measurable
each connected
arbitrarily
buried under the weight
of subjectivity,
under six feet of clay,
and partly iron,
Three statues trampling
their future into nothing
Like unnameable figures
from a Trilogy
Now it is we
who are worms in the bin,
not the puppets,
but the string,
We are the statues crumbling
into chaff, blown away
into the eyes of passersby,
The dirt in their tears.
We have been,
and will be, for years.
One wonders how and if
and when, my friend
That this now might be
now again
