I breathe in a Dutch window, the edges spangled
with a bruised, unmitigated, and somewhat christless grime
that I insist is algae scraped
from the sea of this hour, this hour in all its nudity.
The window panes are an assembly unto themselves,
for in their utter, inmost glee,
they have forgotten the contours of a clock called Ida.
Somewhat chastened. More than bridled.
No longer can they stroke its virgin hands
or cup its choirlike face in their glassy palms.
Jubilation—that is the meaning
of this anti-reminiscence.
Time is a paper-cut.