Not to Touch

Time is a tricky beast. Given its head you're dead. Time's not a thing to be seen, touched or smelled. Nor even addressed in the first person and yet we do, like time is intimately connected. "Time like a bauble"

"We have all been here before," as was once sung, Only of course no one has, nor have we ever spoken to anyone sane who has. But the theme marches on.

Haiku seem too vague and villanelles too precious. Paragraphs are just too long for texting, and while tercets can be done with better line breaks, they leave so much white space. Besides, Merrill's gone. So mucking about instinctively is the beast at hand.

""Dog and Disturbance"" is a companion book to this one, but it's too long a story to explain.