The poetry of being late is the opposite of the poetry of waiting.The poetry of breathlessness and apology. Ballad of the flat tire, missed boat, deaf taxi and unfaithful alarm clock. To be late is to be poetically implicated in the ache and tumult of almost and if only. It is a strictly mortal concession. In all this time I’ve never met a tree who was late for an appointment. Or a sunrise that regretted sleeping in.
May 22, 2009
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