Familiar Hours

Its steady hands reckoning our course
around the face of time
make me uneasily aware
of my mortality and yours.
From vague gazes and half-finished sentences
the humming of our travel clock
coaxes us to parables, morals, cautionary tales.
Words do not fail this errant reality
ever decoded by action and plans
for love, for truth, and so on–
for Eden Interruptus.
I can see us both coffin-bound
wonder if we will meet again
in fate’s garden. I can hear our first conversation
smell our impulsive desire
touch our grace to stop the time.