we are walking through sullen fields bright skies burning like crows in flame searching with our fingers, clawing dirt for orbs of time, wrapped in warm wool because all the time in the world is loose and ill managed there must be some extra around for the borrowing but T.S. Eliot said, “immature poets borrow, mature poets steal” so i’d steal the forgotten moments first the ones marked by string around pinkies no one would miss them that string theory never worked next i’d slide into bedrooms all over the world give millionaires one less hour of sleep each i’d have a doctor’s bag, and i’d slip each hour carefully in between the leather walls then i’d go to cemeteries where the dead have been misburied where the wrong relatives stoop over the wrong graves we could all use a little less grief so i pickpocket five or ten minutes from each one then i’d go where i should have gone first to the moments of mental numbness on the bus or in front of the dryer or on a couch in front of reruns of Lost i’d take all those, with greedy hands with eyes not looking for forgiveness after all this, i’d return to my secret lair where i stash the orbs of time each a different size a different color into their various sorted bins, labeled appropriately i would fill my clawfoot bath tub with steaming hot water light a cigar and wait for the morning when i will begin to spend an orb here an orb there to ease the pain of being
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I get it.