Another Art

Little by little I am learning

the art of wasting time,

the marathon of days.

 

Cycling slower,

stopping almost

to bide time with hives

of wisteria and pink petal

shavings, like candy floss

in the gutter.

 

Then going farther faster 

limbs burning 

lungs unfolding 

palms like oysters 

on melted ice

clasped but curdling

as they begin their journey

of forgetting the sea.

The Bookworm Riddle

Translation of ‘Riddle 47’ from The Exeter Book

A moth ate words. When I heard about this wonder,

It seemed to me a curious thing, that the worm should gobble

The sayings of some unnamed man,

That the thief in the dark should steal his glorious speeches,

The foundation of their mighty meanings.

And yet the thieving guest was not one whit the wiser

For having swallowed all those words.