I am trying to capture my transience
Going past all my years, my balconies
Their overlookings on my sharp nights
Having a glimpse of when it is about.
I slow to keep pace with it in poems.
They are my transience running away
From an understanding between lines.
The lines are vapor of my transience
Their fleetingness is when they break
And trail off to nothing, a dementia
Of continuous memory, a slow down.
A Greek poet wonders about statues
Growing shorter by years amid weeds
As the weeds and the statues in them
Outgrow other in mutual transience.
We and the poet slow down to chase
Transience before it leaves our lines.