The Print of Time

It is not sand that filters

Through the fingers.

It is pieces with identity, that

Scratch your fingers,

With irregular and convex edges, uncomfortably sized and

An unavoidable

Presence.

It is not a flow of time that

Parmenides or Heraclitus

Would have approved of.

In which Penelope could knit,

In which Ariadne could weave.

It is a brutal time, like Asturian fabada;

It is a reality like the Pyrex of your Ikea glass when it explodes,

Like the blood I spilled together with you,

Spat out with each ventricular systole.
Like the indifference that brutally happens, with ventricular precision,

Exactly like that instant in which

Daisies rain around me

And I lay, lacerated, feeling an

Infinite hunger.

And beat by bit, with a tremendous shovel or, else,
Like the hourglass,
Life falls and stumbles,
Leaving in its track
Bruises, cathedrals, petals and rubble.