Chirp

 

My time, my time has been, and is

The fizz of now, a cascade of instants

That bloom and fade away, a second,

Minute. day or decade to parade into infinity.

Nothing one might speak of as unique

But still, quite personal, a leak of generality

Into the specific that might be a clue,

A  Sherlock bark out of the dark from the dog

That isn’t there, the wavicles of quantum random

To twiddle on the fiddles of the melodies  of me.

No doubt the meat and bone and blood

Will thud to be interred, to be forgotten

But, perhaps, a passing sparrow might chirp a note

To hook a ghostly thought that someone was here.