time is not the deepest of times;
it is an unslept hour of breaking light
stirring lazily after a spent night
of copulation with its denseness
gloom, in visitation of hope
for the crescent moon to have tilted
sideways up into a smile, half
concealed by the veils of frothing
clouds speculating its revelation.
time is a treasure keep, the hour
melts into momentary recline
when birds purr open their eyes
and light winds yawn over
the grass rustling to the suckling
sun sneaking up the horizon’s wall,
like a thief, spilling gently on dews
clinging to the belly of leaves
coming awake under the scents
of unpollinated buds.
Is the time of a time in snares
of a gamble not yet played?
I wonder if time is