Linear time
doesn’t care if you missed a bit,
went to the toilet,
weren’t paying attention,
needed subtitles.
Linear time, a vector;
tectonic shift,
never be the same again.
Instant by instant,
analogue in the noticing,
lip-service to cyclical movement
but emphatically progressive
leaves us clutching
at the coattails of possibilities
already gone.
Linear time is a net,
a map;
doesn’t care how I bleed month after month,
cannot tell me the sweetness
of summer’s first plum,
or that you will bring our coffee date forward a day.
Time cannot tell me
whether you will smile
when you see me.