As it’s all infinitely divisible, infinitely
Compounded, days are years, years
Are days, and that is the problem. Echoing
Telescopes pointing in every direction
Distort our perspectives of time,
Which is, itself, only echoing distortion.
In the event, the twenty-eighth day
Brightens into grey. The fifty-sixth year
Is the first for many and the hundredth
For a very few and anyway, what echoes
In the minds of those who must experience
Is rarely orderly memory but the sum
Of some recent concatenation of repeated
Behaviors, the pictures on a screen, stories
In a book, politics in a paper, gossip in a pub,
The endless family arguments on the same
Topics until one or the other leaves or dies.
All in the head in the grey morning trying
To sleep a little more on a dim grey bed,
Brain counting itself in and out of dreams
Of telescopes pointing every which way
To the done and the lost and the never will.
Then daughter comes in and jumps
On the bed and the better part of life returns.
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