It never occurred to me before
that time is shaped like a seashell,
or at least the mobile home of a snail
moving along the Jungleland of any forest.
If I changed the image to make it more human,
time would still look like a spiral, the only difference
is the shape of the fingers which point to it, and
the swirl of perfectly shampooed hair that swivels
and swishes like a Kennedy thinking things through.
Time is a spiraling thing. It dances as if it were pulled by
an invisible puppet master, but even those hands move
in ideal spirals. The naked puppet waltzing around the
ballroom, where oblivious dogs piss on the lilacs in the
corner.
Digging their heels into the sawdust,
they position themselves like screwdrivers.
Well, you get the point.
Time cannot move straight and time cannot move sideways.
It cannot go backward alone, and it never goes forward without
finding its own way. Yet, everything is new again. Even raisins
are a new kind of fruit. After they have died the death of grapes.
Even a lightbulb shines with new intensity every time it is switched on.
Same power source. Same switch. Same room. Same sensation.
But a different light.
Time is the mind put together as a puzzle is formed, but the pieces
are not shaped to be anything at all. They are just spiraling words,
asking spiraling questions about the meaning of words.
George Cassidy Payne is a poet from Rochester, NY. His work has been included in such publications as the Hazmat Review, Moria Poetry Journal, Chronogram Journal, Ampersand Literary Review, the Angle at St. John Fisher College, and 3:16 Journal. George’s blogs, essays and letters have appeared in the USA Today, Wall Street Journal, the Atlantic, the Havana Times, the South China Morning Post, the Buffalo News, and more.