OUT YONDER Hours, days, years, move too quickly, as I endlessly try to befriend the hands of time. Beseeching it, bargaining, pleading, placating, but to no avail. Time is not a mortal’s friend. We are bound by it, bound to it – an infinite construct…

This is not a love poem to a person. I have left many of them behind, and none of them have chosen to stowaway in my heart or mind or otherwise to be remembered. This is not a love poem to the home I left…