Time is a ribbon
Tied in a bow
Wrapped around a gift
And you are a strand of ribbon
Whose slenderous length winds across mine
at many points
like train tracks and radio wires
clicking and meeting and humming together
in the ribbon that is time.
And just what color is the ribbon called time?
Is it colorèd,
is it color-red,
is it less color,
is it colorless?
And just of what is the ribbon of time made?
Is it nylon, is it steel, is it synthetic, is it real?
And just who will unwrap this ribbon
of us and all else?
Will it simply unravel and fray in a darklit, sad birthday room?
Or will it be yanked apart by the giddy hand
of one who knows what lies inside the box,
Under the wrapping that is space?
Is it the endless tongue
of the bottomless mouth
of the heartless Fate,
choking and cloaking the secret gift in a garish ball of...
(Is it nylon? Is it steel?)