if not for dust
settling on everything
how could I understand
this passage of days
scattered amongst time
that no longer keeps anything--
a few kind words
someone who lingers--
just to ask
to lay a hand without asking
even my phone is a minute behind
doesn't anyone see--
these minor anachronisms
a day ago
a week
this very same spot
just last year
pressing our legs into each other
as if in oath
the girl behind the bar
never sees a thing
I take back our glasses
she fills yours with water
I drink from it
as if you were still here
now where there is no dust--
no measure of either
days passed nor days yet to come
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