Each minute moment in one minute,
seven lined in a row, 11:53 through to midnight, not inclusive-
that sixty-some seconds belonging to another day.
What could be said within and about those short moments,
that small bit of time
they fleeted and fell away while he watched
and wondered from where they all came and then went.
Did they play themselves out all over elsewhere?
Could one moment have many lives,
if only it never returned to the same place,
never to be counted by the same heart more than one time –
time cheating itself, becoming eternal by moving forever about?
Would this same second show up someplace else, to be counted again?
What could he say about time, but that the one who counted it
was also the very one who whittled it down,
chased it away,
and wondered then wherefore