you're sitting on a
train staring
at a rain-wet window
etched grey
with
time
       imagining
the familiar
trackside
landscape

a voice in
the novel you're
reading, a voice
way off in the
distance in the
last scene
      says
"he shoots, he scores"
you drive home
listening to the
odd buzz coming
from somewhere
in the rear of your
otherwise very
nice car
and you wonder
if it will make
it home or
to the shop
on Monday

[you think about
passing this bus
in traffic
on a narrow
two-lane-one-
way street but
decide against it
and fall in
behind it
              instead
waiting for a
green light]

and all the while
time
dancing like a sonogram
between your
eyes
        silent
streaming
sweeping in
the still moments
the yet moments

the motes in motion

[it's like
being
dead and being
aware
of it
       that
sense of now
and never
never again]