In that place

where a person becomes a memory,
where memory becomes the truth,
and reality is just somewhere in between.

thoughts are like rainwater and my hands full of holes.

drop. drip.

drop.

judgment freezes action and
the world becomes too big. my arms too
small.
and all I can do is cry,

"O Time, thou must untangle this, not I;
It is too hard a knot for me t' untie"