by Felix Cheong
IT’S not certain, yet,
you’re today whom you thought
you would be, yesterday.
You’re cursed not to see
your own clockface, if it slows
to a growl, quickens as mercury;
a month, a year, or maybe never,
between understanding means
and ends, what the end must mean
when what you held as beautiful
that once, like a mimosa to sun,
collapses, your touch.
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You’re what you’re as
capable of loving as losing,
beginning as destroying.
Oh, the years, yearning, learning.
How it takes time
to know time.
This poem was first published in Sudden in Youth: New and Selected Poems (2009).
Featured image by Sean Chong.
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