and the still-bare branches
not so much seen through
in frosted glass.
thing close; you could wipe it away.
One touch –
all this might undo itself, gather and run.
Glassy, too, the acoustic.
like a hanging splinter, glinting
not with light
but sound, each bird-pitch, sudden, there
and there. And shattered: that's
how brittle our time is
(we can guess but not see)
in the act
of dissolution, its crystalline structure
still in place,
in space: a small universe, in which each
from every other particle
is always turning,
as if every possible spot
was an exit,
from Time in the Dingle, IPSI Chapbook 1