No one ever ran out of time. Time suffocated us.
There weren't any grains in the hourglass to measure, only
Quicksand underfoot, climbing the thighs, to struggle against
Or accept. Thought was an ark, a reed basket sealed in pitch,
Built to float as the wet sand clutched and rose. Future prophets,
Future visionaries, scientists, lunatics, poets,
Were incubated in that fragile echo of a skull.
Names and explanations, technologies and instructions,
All we made, all that might survive us, floated as we sank,
And each ark was a lure that trapped more. Wade out. Reach. Drown. Think.
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