The shoes I threw away two months ago
might be walking down the street
somewhere.
The peak of the mountain is still happening.
The clay is always reading his lines aloud.
The sea could never stop.
She is probably exhausted
from heaving onward,
churning seconds into shoreline.
We have found
unceasing
semiprecious
crystalline minutes
tucked up into our sleeves.
after reading T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets
poem - March 2014
