Somewhere beyond our understanding and tenses
there something like an hourglass. At its center
falls a long thread going forever
and thin but inevitable that music changes
Turning, braking, accelerating, steering,
grandparent's car repeated (or not) over and over again, the same trip
through that sand
that is thin, which is sinuous and is straight at a time.
The path from past to future, from yesterday to today, anyway.
In the back seat,
The boy looked through a hole in the floor of the car, the history of things. In their eyes
children
Everything was going
As flashes
Everything was going on. As fast
barely enough to see the color of the flowers before they wither,
a blink, a time when the sea crimson
crops
before his eyes and turned the leaves are removed seeds carried by wind.
suspended in eternity,
's grandson sometimes suspicious of his face
He asked, looking toward the front seat if perhaps
his own was also not the same face of his grandparents,
that looking forward and talking memories,
enjoyed the scenery.
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