This poem sort of goes with my last blog:


I waste the lost hours

playing games—in the fun

of distant worlds, and words framed

from disappointment, another hour ticks by.

My disease is framed, in a circle.

Two remote hands edge, a semaphore

to the knowing, ever closer,

now nearer now far apart.

My daughter cannot tell the time.

Cannot tell it, it doesn’t matter to her

that things divide into other things,

and then dissolve.

It doesn’t matter to her that photographs

are lost, and with them memories

as if it wasn’t all contained

eternally, as if the brain had failed.

Is it an element then? Or an arbitrary

division of the moment, of anticipation

over before indulgence. Time;

convenience or torture,

dragging us onwards, admonishing,

with the wagging finger of electronics

or the old Grandfather,

monotonous, severe,

an heirloom of the family,

that ticks over arguments

and the door that closes

for the last time.