Before the sweep hand of time
There were moments, shapes, scents
The warmth of skin
Eternal, though passing,
A disconnected grammar
Then, later, while still a child
You learned of time
But still did not feel its sweep hand
At night, you lay in bed
Looking at buildings across the way
The old buildings of brick or stone
With square rooftops and fire escapes
The night sky clear and blue
With a golden moon for light
You sat up gazing at the windows
Wondering who was behind the drawn curtains
As the silence gave you timeless bliss

Once the sweep hand made its presence felt
Sweeping you forward
Breathless, dizzy, stumbling
What recourse but to break the grammar?
To feel each discrete moment
As in childhood
And recall translucent nights
With the moon and old buildings.
What tools but
Art, memory, and love?