How Time Is Kept
In the flurry of our beating hearts
there is never time enough for what we dream of.
Our intimate dead, however, lie calm of face
as if to say, no need for hurry.
They idle in such a wealth of stillness
it can never be wholly spent.
Yet they are close, deep in our one affair.
Don't disturb us, they say, we are busy
at the leisure of not breathing. It takes all our time,
it takes more time than being alive.
~~from the Collected Poems
of Ernest Sandeen (1908 - 1997)
Notre Dame Professor and Poet
see my recent Fortnightly Post
"Poems for Memorial Day"