one can grow up oblivious to time
like how a windless childhood
might make air perfectly
absent, but these days life leans
constantly in the rush
of minutes, kronos pulling
us backwards into the future
through gusts of news and paperwork,
insisting that we and only own our time
when clearly it's some kind of scam.
scarce
now are those intervals
in which time is art, pressed
like clay by fingertips to startling
new forms, acts of
kairos and care;
under the eyes of alarm clocks
(born church bells) we've surrendered time
to metronomes, called these forms
"timeless", "flow states", like calling ceramics
mudless or origami papercuts instead
of recognizing the crafts and art of time.
luckily we have
no best moment but the present
in which to grow something more human.