Time is a passing fever of the senses

Pressing image into flesh, it burns

Swelters and freezes in place

Pales of star eruptions occur

Cartwheels, pinwheels

Churchbells, carousels

It passes as it turns back upon itself

Past buildings, eroding all it touches all

Echoing softly around the hollow corners

Of an eye, dying ceilings delirious blues

Ever watchful, never seeing one waiting

For one is only, another.