mount quickly in the words
that turn and spin—round on your face,
plastered there against the wall.
Can you count it off in spades this New York minute,
maybe say in—
then perhaps the wine will not pour
any more easily if you are
distracted or inclined to share
your space, your time or your cell.
Life becomes a sentence
spinning full circle there as the glass
empties willingly, as quick as the gun
it will not stop time, or the bullets
when you feel so contracted
to think quietly as your inner
passions sore. Time well spent,
in blocks, in cells, lets say—
Will the seconds lick any sooner
or quicker if you jump up by years
spilling them off the clock
hanging there on the wall,
if you chirp or tweet.
Will you smile loosely as you do—
closing your eyes,
but— not your mind to the possibilities
so that the answers begin to fill the spaces
in between the pills and the medical
wing, as you walk one step at a time.
So would you take those
or are the pills better
in mixed pairs— two x four.