Ain’t it funny how time slips away
Not just that a moment or an epoch moves into the past
Or even that the past moves in to take a moment or an epoch
But time itself under certain circumstances departs

And in such circumstances one becomes aware
Of the self-deception occasioned by time as a substance
Time an illusion
Self and other an illusion

The little houses on the prairie
Where you grew up close to O’Hare
The wooden floor where we took
Our children roller skating

The room where my father died
Looked to me more like a hotel than a hospice
I tried to lie and told him it was a hotel
He was past caring about a particular location

No more to be seen here
No more to see
No water no wind no waves
No flower

We love each other
We know that love exists
But you don’t call a relation
An existence

The past the future
Relations to the present
Tangible in varying degrees
Until the moment comes

The destabilizing moment
But you can’t call it a moment
You can’t call now
What isn’t there

Or rather
Isn’t then
The slip
The gone