Late, again…

The days seem to slip by in the most astonishing way, perhaps because of the absence of events. This poem seems to speak at least in part to a way to measure the time, as the distance between point A and point B. It came to me via the Writer’s Almanac:

What Love Cannot Do

It cannot save itself when it expires
like a tire’s slow leak. It cannot bring back
the greediness of youth
             mouth on mouth,
             skin on skin, that gnawing,
             that longing you carried
until the next time
and then there is no next time.
You never see it coming but always see it leaving.
It waits by the door, bags packed,
full of stones from your life.
             What it can do is mark
the distance between Point A and Point B,
which feels like a galaxy,                       
             every star you ever wished upon
             imploding before your eyes.

January Gill O’Neil

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