Today on top of one another
i place my hours.
One by one they heap on higher,
all mine, none ours.
We had our noon,
the sun was high,
not ever for a minute
were our minutes
on a pile:
all always in a jumble.
Yet even that
which is not built
can crumble.
Since then,
to reach again the light
i´ve made a ladder
with my time,
screwed together
my days
to form the ringers,
my years into the rungs.
All likewise climb
around me
in ladders of their own
and from up here
the spot on which we stood
is not so clear.
And so we float
and i’ll have lost
my eyesight anyway
by the time
i reach the top.
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