Let's turn the hourglass on its side tonight

and lay on the carpet,

one on each side.

Our hands and eyes braided above time's hairless head,

our ankles crossed beneath its hobbled feet.

Playing at parenthood, cocooning the tired tot between us in the bower.

Salty sand trapped in a transparent neck

thinner than the wrist that carries blood, to and fro,

an arid sea unable to escape into either past or prophecy.

Its customary habit, a militant march across rows of perfect calendar squares,

conquering its own increments of days, weeks, years

temporarily interrupted.

How does Time feel about this surprising intermission of its infinite-act play?

Is he the permanent prima donna, resentful when our typical homage to him,

of wristwatches and sundials, calendars and cuckoos

is wholeheartedly forsaken?

Or is it a relief? Does this give Time time—

—to take a shower, catch up on the crossword, call a friend?

My fingers sink into your yellow curls.

Waves ripple along my fingertips.

I am absorbed by liquid gold tenderness

carried along by the night's currents

that will become my future

and my memory

but in this unmeasured moment

we call it love.