A One-Gin-&-Tonic Night

The workshopping session at The Bucket went well, I think--though I probably should learn to raise my hand and wait to be called upon. Then again, three cheers for juvenile enthusiasm, right? So, I took everyone's comments into consideration and revised my poem considerably tonight. I think I've punched it up a bit, but please feel free to comment (Note: The two If's in the later stanza are supposed to be indented, can't figure out how to make that work on the blog though):



Tempus Fugit


Is it safe only to look
at the now?

I have heard you expound
the evils of the backward glance,
how unwolflike
the clouds of futile If's.

Then, no clarion,
a horn on a pole in the distance
warned against the skies:
wait to unfold
my map,

do not number the eggs,
do not dwell on the wishbone
wondering if it should have been spared.

It leaves now
the only plot of relevance allowed.
If
I listen to that horn.
If
I don the pelt and fangs.

Softness, rather
lays me lengthwise into both
the lost days and the coming.

I look into them,
Time's limpid pools
and count koi
heedless of prayers and regrets, yet
weaving both together

and in my hand
a string,
a key,
a kite with an infinite tail.